Some Trees Flourish, Others Die
by NiraKaulitz
Summary: The old west is dying, or that's what everyone keeps saying. More and more people are leaving their farms on the country side for the excitement of city life. The citizens of New Austin, however, will stay their ground until the end. When they unite to fend off the unwanted changes to their lives, Jack Marston and Effie MacFarlane somehow end up the leaders of a rebellion! JackxOC
1. Prologue

**A/N- So this is literally my first fanfiction posted online ever. I decided to do this cos I had this really long head-canon about what would happen to Jack after his parents died and I really needed to get it out on paper. Red Dead Redemption is my all time favorite game and I noticed a few times through it that John would mention how the old west was dying out or something like that and the idea really seemed like something I wanted to explore DX there really is an overarching plot coming soon, I swear. anyway, if you like this please review it so I'll know, if you don't, please tell me how I can improve! I'll appreciate any feedback honestly. Also, I know this first chapter is kind of slow since it's the prologue but I'll publish the second chapter very soon. Also, this story is full of spoilers so don't read if you haven't finished the game :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rate T for violence and coarse language. **

Prologue:

When I was eight years old, my father sat me down and told me exactly why it was that I'd never met my mother. He told me that she had been a prostitute and that their relationship never amounted to much more than a one night stand. I wasn't upset by the news. I'd suspected for a while from the looks I'd sometimes get that my father had done something wrong in my infancy. I was not disappointed in him. What had always been a distant relationship did not change.

My father, a business tycoon, made up for what he lacked in social standing with his impressive wealth. As I grew, we moved from one house to another, larger house every few years. His business left him little time to raise me so I was left to my nanny and the influence of the other children at the one school in Blackwater. I was at first stigmatized, then accepted, and then, at last, befriended as I aged. In time my illegitimate birth came to have little meaning to the people around me and I was glad. The only person who ever spoke of my mother, the nanny, told me that she had been a regular working girl of no repute. The woman had moved from Tumbleweed to Blackwater when the town went bust and gave me over to my father when it became apparent she could not raise me on her salary. My father had always loved me in his way and I reciprocated the feeling as much as I could.

At the age of sixteen most girls in New Austin from relatively wealthy families were prepped and preened for marriage. Fresh out of their last years of finishing school, they wanted nothing more from their lives than to settle down with another rich man. Although I had no problem with marrying a rich man I just couldn't see myself settling down in Blackwater or another city like it. Why anyone wanted to stay there when the land around the city was so beautiful was a mystery to me.

I was thirteen and the end of my finishing school years was looming in the distance. I'd learned to sing and dance, paint decently and sow prettily, and the piano was an instrument on which my fingers could work masterpieces. German was the language I chose to study upon (the other options were French and Latin) and good etiquette came as easily breathing after a while. I and the other girls reveled in our newly learned talents but, for some reason, it never felt like enough. Perhaps it was the influence of my Aunt Bonnie that brought this feeling about. She and her brother Patrick (my father) didn't see eye to eye on much. She'd remained on the family farm in Hennigan's Stead but he'd hopped onto a train to Blackwater and never looked back. She came to visit us from time to time and I was sent to stay with her when school was out during the summer. It was she who showed me the other side to life in New Austin.

"You're going to learn how to use a gun, Effie," she'd said, "It might save you one day."

And learn I did. It turned out I was a natural with guns and, by the time I was thirteen, I could outshoot many of the men on the ranch. My Grandpa Drew would eye me with pride on these occasions, something that only encouraged me further. That was only the first step in the learning process.

At nine years of age I was given a horse. And not just any horse. My grandfather gifted me with a War Horse, all black with light hair and stamina like none other. The horse grew with me but stayed at MacFarlane's Ranch whenever I returned to Blackwater. My father was adamant that none of that country trash would be brought back to the city with me.

By twelve years I was frequenting the ranch more often than my father liked. I learned to work on a farm but I never had the knack for it that my aunt had. Still, the honest work was something I enjoyed. My friends in Blackwater, namely the one closest to me, Collette, didn't understand that. So I stopped talking about it. That was okay though. The two lives were separate and I was okay with that.

At thirteen I made the decision to move to the ranch entirely. My father was less than pleased but, as he'd never enforced many rules on me in the first place, he allowed me to leave with the promise that letters would be sent to either him or my nanny with news of my well-being. I said my goodbyes to Collette and the others and packed my bags. The summer of that year I moved to Hennigan's Stead with no intention of living in a city ever again.

I didn't expect that my life would change much just because I'd moved. As nice as fairytales can be, I knew that a change of scenery wouldn't fulfill everything I felt I was lacking. Still, my life improved. I felt a new vigor I didn't expect I'd ever find and my outlook changed greatly. Everything was good, stable even.

In the autumn my Aunt brought home a man, and not in the way you'd think. He was close to death after being shot in the abdomen. The doctor from Armadillo travelled out the ranch to patch him up and, amazingly, the man pulled through. That man was John Marston and initially he frightened me. Over time I came to realize that he was an embodiment of what was missing in my own life: freedom, strength, and the spirit of the west. I admired him, something that turned to outright affection when I discovered that his entire mission revolved around the well-being of his wife and son. He was the father I wished I had and I learned a lot from him during the time he spent on my grandfather's ranch. Then, for a long stretch of time, he went missing. Aunt Bonnie didn't know where he was and I feared the worst. But time passed and I stopped thinking about it as people often do. Again my life was stable. Until it wasn't.

Winter was almost there when he reappeared, this time with his young son in tow. For some reason that was the day I remembered best when I thought about that year. It was the day everything began.

* * *

His eyes are wide as they sweep over me, my horse, the cows milling about. He looks nervous for some reason. His father smiles down at him and I suspect that there's a hint of pride in the action.

"Jack, introduce yourself, boy!"

The newcomer slides off his horse and moves towards me. He can't seem to quite look me in the eyes as he shakes my hand.

"H-How do you do?" he stammers out, "It's nice to meet both of you."

Aunt Bonnie gives me a sideways glance I can't quite decipher and beams at the boy. He makes to pull his hand out of mine but I grasp it firmly with my other.

"You're Mr. Marston's son?"

He gulps, wavering under my scrutiny. I'm close enough to him that I could count each freckle on his face if I wanted. His free hand flies up and buries itself in his messy brown hair.

"Yeah."

"I'm Effie. You look like him." I say, releasing his hand. He drops it to his side as soon as I do.

"As glad as we are to see you, I'm suspectin' you're here for somethin' other than a visit," Aunt Bonnie says shrewdly. Mr. Marston nods at her.

"I'm finally startin' up my farm again. Or trying to, at least."

"You'll be fine. You've been taught well. Come on then."

Together the two adults round up about fifteen heads of cattle and start herding them out of the pen. Mr. Marston asks Jack to lead the cows towards the river and I, after getting on my horse, catch up with him.

"How old are you?" I ask as our horses trot forward side by side.

"Sixteen." he says, sounding less nervous than before, "You?"

"Thirteen. You ever herd cattle before?"

"No, but I read about it once. The book made it sound easy."

I laugh and he seems surprised. After a moment, though, he grins at me.

"What?"

"If you think this is hard," I choke out between bursts of laughter, "Wait until you're herdin' them from behind."

His smile grows wider as he sees that I can't control myself. Mr. Marston's voice rings out from behind us.

"Looks like those two are gettin' along well, don't you think, Miss MacFarlane?"

"I'm not surprised," my aunt replies with a smirk, "She's got a way with boys, don't ya Effie?"

This is, 100%, a joke. My chest is so flat I'd need a magnifying glass to see signs of life on it. In addition I'd received zero propositions of marriage during my time at Blackwater while my redheaded friend, Collette, had gotten two. I snort in reply.

We reach the edge of our land and my aunt coaxes her horse to a stop. I follow suit, knowing that this is where we'll part with the Marstons.

"Looks like you got 'em under control. We'd best get back to Pa."

"Nice to see you again, Miss MacFarlane. And thanks for everything." Mr. Marston says kindly.

"Call me Bonnie, you dolt!"

The Marstons move ahead with the herd and Jack glances at me before we part. He looks like he wants to say something but his mouth stays firmly shut. I wave at him, and he waves back, and that's that. They're gone.

* * *

A few weeks passed and I found that I could not stop thinking about that meeting. Seeing John Marston again after I'd thought him dead was the highlight of my year but there was something about his son that made me keep replaying the moment in my head. It was just that he was so…_uncomfortable._ And not just with me, with the entire world. I'd never met someone so ill at ease in their own shoes and I couldn't understand where that came from.

Mr. Marston showed up again eventually, this time with his wife. I'd missed his arrival and not until I saw the two pulling out of the ranch in their wagon did I realize he'd been there at all. I didn't stop to think; I just followed them on foot. When they'd slowed down to a stop a little ways away from the ranch I'd taken my chance and clambered onto the back of the empty wagon. Neither of them noticed and I did not make my presence known. Before long Mr. Marston snapped the reins and the horses drew forward. I fell asleep in the wagon, certain that when I woke up I'd be somewhere I'd never been before.

I awoke perhaps three hours later to the sound of raised voices calling to each other. The landscape had changed drastically while I slept. The plains were no longer the flat fields that surrounded MacFarlane's Ranch but instead a hilly conglomerate of grass and trees. The voices I'd heard were the Marstons, greeting Jack as they pulled into their own ranch. I straightened up in the back of the wagon to scrutinize the place and everything from the tall silo to the wide, single-story house astounded me. It was beautiful. It was nothing like my family's ranch but it was beautiful nonetheless.

When I hopped out of the wagon John Marston and his wife were amazed to see me, and rightly so, but Jack didn't seem surprised at all. It was almost as if he'd been expecting me. I made a beeline for him and embraced him for the first time. That was the beginning of our friendship.

It was made clear in the following days that although the Marstons had no problem hosting a guest at their home, my aunt and grandfather held a different opinion. While they thought highly of the Marston family they maintained that my running away from the ranch without notice was unacceptable. I returned to Hennigan's Stead rather reluctantly but, after a week or so of me moping about the house, my aunt sat me down and agreed to allow me to traverse between the two places. I was to take the train there and back, something she believed would be safer than horseback riding, and keep my Winchester Repeater at my side always. That was the year I spent with the Marstons, notably one of the best years of my life. Mr. Marston was, as always, someone I couldn't help but admire. A lot of the evening hours of my days were spent with him and Jack in front of their fireplace as he told us about the less gory parts of his adventure. In time he began to instruct Jack and me on how to work properly with a gun and his careful teachings became the dogma I'd follow for the rest of my days. Abigail Marston was a woman in a man's world, certainly, but one that never faltered. Her relentless teasing of Jack provided me with a constant source of entertainment and she laughed easily and often, brightening up any conversation she joined. At times she'd stroke my hair or place a kind hand on my shoulder and I'd feel, with a pang, the mother I'd been missing my entire life. Uncle, who, it turned out, was not really anybody's uncle taught me many things about growing up, most of which I'd eventually ascertained were not true. He didn't put up with any laziness from me despite the fact that he spent most of his own time napping in the sun. From him I learned how to properly tend to the farm work I'd often skipped out on my family's ranch. He was, if nothing else, someone I could count on to teach me the right way of things.

We'd gotten visits from people Mr. Marston had met on his journey in that year as well. The first of these was Marshall Johnson, on his way to Blackwater for a meeting with the governor. He had his son, Wade Johnson, with him and explained that he was grooming the boy for a future as a lawman. Wade was a year younger than Jack and two older than me so we got along well enough but he and the Marshall were gone as quickly as they came. The next person we'd met was a rather rotund man with a gentlemanly air and an impressive white mustache, Nigel West Dickens. When he spoke to us it seemed as if he was from another, more genteel, time period. He'd tried to sell me a bottle of what he called "elixir" before he departed for Cholla Springs and mentioned to Mr. Marston that someone by the name of Irish may stop by eventually (he never did). The younger man seemed none too pleased about the information. Our last visitor, who came by far more often than the other two, was one Seth Briars. Seth wasn't a clean or healthy looking man and upon meeting him I doubted his sanity to an extent. I didn't think much of him until one fateful day he'd saved me from a cougar attack using only a small knife. Afterwards I maintained an irrational fear of cougars but an even more irrational loyalty to Seth Briars that made Jack doubt _my_ sanity.

The Marstons became my surrogate family, filling the empty cracks in my life like cement. The days I spent at MacFarlane's Ranch and Blackwater became increasingly less frequent as I made Beecher's Hope my home. I knew I wasn't being fair but the Marstons never complained. In retrospect I'd always hoped that they felt I was one of their own.

Jack Marston became my closest friend that year and we established a bond that we agreed could not be broken by even blood. I began to adopt some of his habits as my own and in return, some of mine rubbed off on him. Jack loved to read so we'd spend long afternoons in the family's barn pouring over book after book. I loved to exhibit my prowess with guns so we'd compete often in shooting contests while his father coached us. My fondness of snow took us up to Tall Trees more than once where the icy flakes were always plentiful. His discomfort with the world never fully went away but he would venture further out of his shell in time. Together we travelled as far as Blackwater and Armadillo, always under the constant watch of either his parents or my aunt. We gathered the world in small handfuls and I had hopes that my life would always remain that way.

But one thing I'd learned in my fourteen short years was that things always change.

John Marston was murdered in the fall of 1911 and he took Uncle with him when he went. I was not present when it happened. I learned about it a week after the fact and nearly fainted when I did. It didn't feel real. I couldn't imagine a world in which he did not exist.

Everything was different the next time I returned to Beecher's Hope. For one, I brought my aunt and grandfather with me to visit Mr. Marston's grave. That wasn't the end of it. Abigail Marston was absolutely distraught. She cried most of the time in those first few weeks and struggled through the oncoming months with little spirit. However, after she'd carried on in that way for about a year I began to see some changes in her. She would laugh when I told her jokes. She would hum as she went about her chores. They weren't major things, and I still caught her with the expression of a lost child on her face at times but it was better than nothing. Mrs. Marston proved to me again that the world would not beat her down.

Jack didn't cry. I kept expecting him to but he didn't. As I watched, he transformed from a lanky and thin boy into a strong and wiry man. At the age of nineteen, he already looked like Mr. Marston in miniature. He didn't laugh anymore. He seemed to have no interest in anything outside of the ranch and discovering the name of the man who'd murdered his father in cold blood. When he talked to me he was still as sarcastic as ever but I could tell he felt no amusement in his words. Even so, I couldn't stop myself from following him around and worrying about everything he did or said. We _were_ best friends of course so it was well within my rights to worry about him, but this was different. I was starting to notice that his lack of interest in all but those two areas included a lack of interest in me. In the year before his father's death he'd never left my side unless he had to but now…it seemed like he couldn't care less if I was there. This sudden change in his attitude towards me wasn't something I liked at all. I was starting to miss the year we'd spent together before his father's death just because it meant he'd treat me like he used to.

I cried. I cried longer than I should have, longer than I deserved to. John Marston was not my father but when he died, I knew that was what it had felt like. I visited his grave often and wept beside it when I thought no one was around. The first time Jack saw this, he ignored me. The second time he asked me tonelessly why I was doing it to myself. The third time, and every time after that, he fought with me. He insisted on the point that I was in no way related to John Marston and thus should not have felt the pain that deeply.

"_HE WASN'T YOURS!_" he'd yelled, "_HE WAS _**MY** _FATHER. MY MOTHER'S HUSBAND. NOT YOURS!"_

I'd screeched back some pathetic excuse about family not ending with blood but I knew his words were true. I had no right. Eventually it got to the point that my tears dried up and I could sit by Mr. Marston's grave without feeling too sad. Jack and I stopped arguing and began a lengthy cold war that would last for nearly three years. There were breaks in it, of course, when we reminisced on the old days or had shooting competitions for the hell of it. That was all though. Our friendship had withered away to a husk of its former self. At that point I'd thought that things could not possibly get worse. But they did. As usual, they did.

It was 1914 when my real story began and it did so at the ending of another's. "Always in our hearts" is what the grave said. Always in our hearts.


	2. The Last Surviving Marston

**A/N- Here's chapter two, just like I promised! If you're reading this I'm warning you ahead of time that it's not as good as chapter one BUT chapter three, which I'll post in the next couple of days or so, is the best yet. please bear with me until then! also, thanks for the reviews up until now, I was really happy to see them. Sudowidow, Jack will change pretty soon so hopefully you'll like that :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rate T for violence and coarse language.**

****The Last Surviving Marston:

"I'm dying."

Abigail Marston sat in the armchair beside the fire and gave the two of us a wan smile. She said the words plainly, as if they were of no consequence to anyone. My heart fluttered just once, weakly, as my mind processed that idea. Beside me Jack was silent.

She was prepared for this. We were not.

"That's not funny, Mrs. Marston," I said at last, hoping she'd just apologize and admit that it was all a joke. But I knew it wasn't.

She'd been coughing more and more frequently as of late and although I was worried I'd never expected it to mean this. People coughed all the time. When I was eleven I'd caught a weak strain of influenza and coughed for a week straight. Mr. Marston smoked and he used to cough a little after finishing a cigarette. It was nothing strange.

"I know, hon. I know."

The woman in the armchair holds a hand out to her son. He doesn't move. I glance over at him to see that he is frozen through and through like a statue. I keep waiting for him to blink or take a breath, _anything_, but he doesn't. Worry crosses over Mrs. Marston's face and her already thin smile wavers a bit. I, myself, feel like running a hand through Jack's shoulder-length brown hair but I can't do that. I lost that privilege long ago.

"Jack?" Mrs. Marston says softly. Still no answer.

"B-but how can you be sure?" I stammer, desperately trying to hold tears at bay. I can't cry here, now. It would only upset both of them.

"The Doctor in Blackwater is sure. I've got the consumption and there's no cure for that."

Consumption, tuberculosis by its scientific name, is not an uncommon disease and those who get it are usually unsurprised. In the back of my mind I know why Mrs. Marston is accepting her fate in such a mild-mannered way. She misses her husband. If heaven exists, and I believe it does, she'll be able to meet him there.

I get up from the sofa and go around the coffee table to reach the older woman's armchair. I kneel beside it and place my hand over hers. Up close I can see lines on her face that were certainly not there three years ago. She's only thirty-seven but losing John Marston has aged her.

The tears start to fall in that moment and I hide my face in my free hand, ashamed. I don't deserve to cry for her, just like I didn't deserve to cry for her husband. I can't help myself. My breathing becomes raspy as the sobs wrack my body.

"Shhh…" she whispers, rubbing the back of my hand with her thumb, "It's gonna be okay, sweetheart. It'll be okay."

There's the distinct sound of someone standing up from a few feet away. I hear spurs jangling as whom I suppose is Jack makes their exit. A door slams in the distance and Mrs. Marston lets out a sad little sigh.

"I knew he'd be like that." she says to herself. Beside her I continue to bawl my eyes out.

_Why is this happening again?_

* * *

"You don't understand, Jack-"

"_Then make me understand!_"

"I can't do that if you don't want it!"

This same quarrel has been going on for the past week. Jack finally found his voice again but ever since he's been using it for nothing but arguing. It seems as if he believes he can shout the tuberculosis into submission. It hasn't worked so far and, if I'm being honest, all three of us know it never will.

Well-wishers have been filing through to say their goodbyes to Mrs. Marston. Aunt Bonnie came by, of course, but my grandfather did not. He had sprained his ankle breaking a stallion and could not make the journey over but sent us all his best. Seth Briars visited a few days after that, bringing with him some news that raised my spirits slightly. When he arrived at the ranch I did not initially recognize him.

"State your business!" I shout, my semi-automatic pistol pointed at the man's chest. The events of the past few days had put us all on edge. The stranger looks upset for some reason but recovers almost immediately. He is immaculately dressed in a crisp black suit and has short, blonde hair that is tucked behind his ears. His eyes are a dark shade of blue.

"Don't tell me you forgot me already." he says, and it's his voice that tells me who he is. In a few short steps I'm off the porch and hugging Seth tightly.

Seth informs Mrs. Marston and I that he'd found his treasure, at last, up in Tall Trees. He used this newfound wealth to buy a large house in Blackwater (down the street from my father's incidentally) and regained the love of his family. He's even planning on starting up a business to insure a stable financial future for them all. Seth offered to fund the ranch on the off-chance that Jack would not be able to handle it on his own but Mrs. Marston declined. Not many people know about it but John Marston had left his wife and son quite a bit of money upon his passing.

Mr. West Dickens never came around but he did send us a rather apologetic telegram. I read the note to Mrs. Marston and discovered that a couple of the denizens of Rathskeller Fork were attempting to hunt him down.

We have few other visitors besides that, but that's okay. Mrs. Marston has started to reach the end-stage of her disease. Jack doesn't come home much anymore, as busy as he is trying to find some sort of cure for his mother. His effort will be fruitless, I know, because she'd admitted to me in his absence that she'd known she had the disease much longer than she let on. She only has a week or so to live at best. It seems to me that every clock I lay eyes upon is counting down the seconds to her death. I try to console myself with the knowledge that she is not sad to go but it doesn't help. I can't feel happiness when Jack is denying the inevitability of his mother's passing so desperately.

A few days before the end, Mrs. Marston calls me into the room she used to share with her husband. I can't help but notice the many pictures (some of John Marston from back in his Dutch Gang days) that cover the walls. The bedspread is a deep burgundy color that matches the drawn curtains over the windows faultlessly. A fire crackles in the grate and Abigail Marston sits up against the headboard, waiting for me.

"How are you?" she asks as I draw near. I laugh but there is no joy in the sound.

"I'm supposed to be asking you that." I point out. She smiles as best as she can and pats the bed beside her. I feel my heart drop as I sit down. From this distance, or lack thereof, I can see just how sickly the woman looks. She's pale as a sheet and skinnier than I remember. I can see the bones of her face through her whitened skin.

"How's Jack?"

I look down at my hands. Talking about this will only make her upset.

"Oh, you know." I say vaguely, "Same as ever."

She rolls her eyes. I bite my lip apprehensively and begin to pick at the cuticle around my thumbnail.

"You're gonna go down a difficult road pretty soon, Effie." she says sadly, "I'm sorry for that."

"What do you mean?"

The conversation takes a brief pause as Mrs. Marston starts to cough loudly. I panic, unsure of what to do, but she puts one hand on my arm to pacify me. She uses the other to cover her mouth as she nearly hacks up a lung. When she pulls that hand away her fingers are splattered with a small amount of blood. I look on helplessly as she wipes the blood off with a handkerchief.

"Don't look that way, sweetheart. I'm fine."

I nod but there's no hiding the tears in my eyes. She settles back down and returns to the previous topic of conversation.

"When I'm gone you're gonna be the only thing that boy has left," she says, "You know that right?"

"Yes."

"You can't let him go down that road. The one he won't come back from."

"I know."

Her eyes are cheerless as she thinks of Jack and I know why. He's known nothing but pain his entire life and her death will ensure that the feeling continues for _at least_ a couple more years. None of this is fair.

"He loves you, you know. He always has." she says after a while. I shrug.

"Of course he does," I agree, "We've been together a long time."

Mrs. Marston chuckles to herself and I eye her questioningly. She shoots me a smirk as she voices her opinion.

"That's not the kinda love I mean, hon."

My heartbeat quickens at this news. While it's true that I'd suspected Jack liked me when his father was still alive, I hadn't had that feeling in years. Nobody who's in love with you would shout you to tears. Nobody who's in love with you would spend so much time resolutely ignoring your existence. I dismiss the idea entirely, acknowledging that my feelings for him would go unrequited for the rest of my days.

"John always said the two of you would end up together…" she trails off. I don't reply to this and I don't think she expected me to. She nods off not long after that, her eyelids fluttering in her sleep as she dreams about something I hope is much happier than her waking hours.

* * *

"Tell me somethin'." a familiar voice says from behind me as I try desperately to convince one pig to get back in pigpen. I've been at it for the past thirty minutes and I wasn't even aware that Jack was home. Therefore, I let out a shriek of surprise. The pig before me squeals in reply and runs further in the wrong direction.

"SON OF A-"

"Language," Jack interrupts before I can embarrass myself further. If anyone in Blackwater ever heard me cursing I'd never hear the end of it. I straighten up to face him, wiping my hands on my dress as I do so. His face is expressionless as he watches me, his dark brown eyes jumping from me to the pig a couple yards away.

"Thank you. Thank you _so_ much for helping me with the pig." I say, making my distaste evident. He rolls his eyes and whistles at the animal. To my shock the thing turns right around and hobbles back to us.

"They ain't sheep. Just whistle, they know what to do."

Hearing this, I feel my face burn. I have a tendency to blush at inopportune moments.

"What?" Jack asks, noticing.

"I can't whistle…" I mutter. Whistling has been an issue ever since I first got my horse, War. Calling him from a distance is nearly impossible for me. A look of amusement crosses Jack's face for one brief second, but it's gone so fast that I can't be sure it was ever there. He doesn't speak, though, leaving it up to me to continue the conversation.

"So what were you saying?"

Jack continues to watch me in that way of his, the one that makes you sure he knows everything about you. He prods the pig with his boot until it gets in the pen and closes and latches the door behind it.

"What makes you stay?"

I blink, confused. A dog, most likely Rufus, barks from somewhere close by.

"Huh?"

"Here. With us. What makes you stay?"

I look at him, this man I have loved for years, and wish I could tell him the truth. _You,_ I want to say, _it's you._ But if I actually said that aloud he wouldn't speak to me again. So I opt for the second reason.

"After all this time, how do you not know?" I begin stepping closer to him, "I love this farm. I care about you, your parents…I don't mind getting hurt if it's for something I care about, you know?"

Jack nods and kicks at the dirt road with his foot. Autumn's almost here again and orange and red leaves fall from the sky like rain every day. As he pulverizes one of these leaves beneath his heel, a hundred more are drifting down from the tree between here and the silo to replace it. That tree was the one we used to sit and read books under, back when we still did thing like that. Why would I ever leave that behind?

"My mother is gonna die." he says abruptly, bringing me back down to earth. I swallow thickly, realizing what this admission means. He couldn't find anything to save her. I'd been waiting for the news for a while but I didn't actually expect Jack to give up that easily.

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath and pulls his father's hat off his head. Both it and his beige jacket are looking a little worse for wear but I don't expect it'll be a good idea to bring that up right now.

"I think it's time I said my goodbyes."

I don't reply to this, but then again I don't have to. We know that it's time. The doctor from Blackwater had been down again yesterday and admitted to me with a sympathetic expression that, at most, Mrs. Marston had two days left. I'd known. Of course I'd known. No doctor gets that look on their face unless they're reporting the end.

* * *

We bury Abigail Marston directly beside her husband. Jack and I take turns digging the grave and I realize that this morbid activity is the first thing we've done together in a long while. The sun beats overhead as we plow deeper and deeper into the earth, making me sweat more than I'm comfortable with. It doesn't matter. This is for her.

Jack holds out his hand and helps me out of the hole before dropping in and taking my place. I dust off my skirt and petticoat before taking a seat in front of Mr. Marston's grave. The wooden cross Jack had planted to commemorate the spot is looking a little worn. His wife's much newer cross is positively gleaming in comparison. Grass has sprouted up through and around the gravel surrounding the burial mound. I smile to myself, thinking that there really was no place better for the couple to be buried. The landscape is lovely and I can see the entire ranch from up here.

Clouds roll in as we get closer to the six feet down we need to be able to bury her. They look dark, ominous, and match our feelings perfectly. The coffin sits on a wagon a short distance away from us and the body of Abigail Marston lies within it. I pull my mind away from that image as I feel myself getting close to tears again. God knows I've cried enough for ten people in the last few days alone.

When Jack finally decides that we've dug deep enough I bring his horse over, the wagon attached to it. The coffin is in the grave soon after and we set about to filling the hole up. It turns out that shoveling dirt into a hole is much quicker than digging and this is a lucky thing as it looks like it's going to rain any second now. We lay down a ring of small rocks around the grave in hopes of making the spot more permanent. When we're done Jack places a bunch of flowers by the wooden cross. Wild Feverfews. I feel a drop of something land on my hand and look up. The rain has started to fall.

"Listen," Jack says as we head back for the barn with the wagon, "I'm leavin'."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Mhm."

"How?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair in hopes of keeping the rain from permeating it a while longer. It doesn't work.

"I saw the newspaper you left on the couch. You'd circled the name Edgar Ross and I remembered that, back in Blackwater, he'd been some big-shot politician. Your pa mentioned him too, once."

Jack is quiet as he pulls on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop. We hop off the wagon and I unhitch his horse to bring it into the barn. He lets out a low whinny and shakes his black mane, spraying me with water droplets. If I had any hopes of staying semi-dry before, they're gone now.

When we're inside the house and beside the flames crackling in the fireplace, I decide to broach the subject again.

"I don't want you to go."

Jack is busy prying his boots off but he pauses to meet my gaze.

"I know."

"Do you even know where Ross is?" I question. The sound of nails clacking against a hardwood floor echoes through the house as Rufus bounds into the living room. He stops abruptly by the chair Jack is sitting in and lays down in front of the fire. I thank God inwardly that he decided not to shake himself dry.

"He's on vacation." Jack says bitterly, as if the idea of Ross enjoying himself bothers him, "The newspaper said so. With the right excuse some lawman in Blackwater will tell me where he is."

Jack's not wrong. Mr. Marston described Edgar Ross as a very prideful fellow and I doubt he'd ask anyone in Blackwater to hide his whereabouts without reasonable cause. I break eye contact with Jack to unbutton my petticoat and move it closer to the fireplace to dry. He passes over his boots and jacket, and I lay those out too.

"You'll come back though, right? After it's done." I say, and I hope he can't tell that I'm begging more than asking. Rufus yawns loudly and rolls over onto his side to settle down for a nap.

"Yeah, of course. It's my farm now."

Hearing this, I suddenly become conscious of the fact that Jack really is the last surviving member of the Marston family. I hate to think of him that way and I hate even more that he's probably thinking the same thing. In the back of my mind I keep hearing Mrs. Marston asking me to keep Jack off the wrong road. I tell myself that this isn't like that; it's just a onetime thing. Besides, if Jack doesn't kill Edgar Ross I will. I hate him that much, this man I've never met. When he came here he took everything.

"Effie."

"Mhm."

"If I don't come back the ranch is yours."

I freeze up, my hands stretched out in front of me to take advantage of the fire's warmth. If he's saying this it means he thinks there's a decent chance he may die.

"Don't say that," I hiss, spinning back around to face him. My knee bangs against a coffee table leg but I ignore the pain.

"I have to." he mutters, and I come to the realization that he's just as scared as I am, if not more, "Take care of Rufus."

I feel my face crumpling as I think about Jack lying dead in some ditch. If this goes wrong the last surviving Marston won't be around much longer. The tears I've been holding back are dangerously close to falling and I don't want that. So I stand up to take my leave.

"You have to call me when you're gone."

"I will."

"And stay out of trouble as much as you can."

"I know."

I lift my hands to the back of my neck and struggle with the knot I'd tied to keep my scarf in place around my neck as I dug. It's tight but I eventually get it loose.

"I know you don't believe in luck," I hold the red cloth out to him, "But-"

He takes the scarf from me before I finish, his hand brushing lightly against mine as he does so. I savor this, perhaps our last touch, before turning to go to bed. The room I've taken as my own used to belong to Uncle before his passing.

I take another look at him before I close my bedroom door behind me, knowing it could be my last. He's leaning back in his armchair, Rufus fast asleep at his feet, and staring at the scarf clutched in his hand with a pained expression. Jack is strong enough to pick most people up with little effort and his build shows this. Right now, though, he looks weak. Broken. And it scares me.

I awaken the next day to the sound of Rufus pawing at my door. I get up to let him in when I happen to notice the silence that envelops the house. This is new. There had always been at least one other person in this house besides me but it seems this is no longer the case.

The rain must have stopped overnight but it doesn't feel like it did. Jack Marston is gone.


	3. A Rescue

**A/N- Here's chapter three. I guess for now I'm updating a chapter every other day. Anyway, from here on is my original story. The real plot will start showing up in about five chapters. SaraRee: things are gonna look up from here, no worries ^^. Black Cat: this chapter has a little more romance and there'll be some more in the future too as well as hunting. And thanks for your support Oli :P**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

****A Rescue:

I've been waiting for the telephone to ring for nearly two weeks now. The first five days he didn't call me I managed to convince myself that the service must have been bad down in Mexico. After eight days I prayed to God that he was just sick of hearing my voice. But at two weeks I have started to believe that the worst has come to pass. He's dead.

I do not say this lightly. The death of Jack Marston would be the final nail in my coffin. I've lost enough and I don't know how long I can keep going after losing him too.

I reach out with my forefinger and gently trace the lines of his handwriting on one of the ledger counts he was doing before he left. He never complained but both I and his mother knew that the business part of running a farm was difficult. She used to joke that many men who were more educated than Jack couldn't do half the job he'd been doing. That was before she passed though. Before she finally admitted to us that she had tuberculosis and had known it for a while. The doctor in Blackwater told us there was nothing we could do. We could only let her go.

After another hour's wait I remember that I can't keep doing this. Waiting by the phone will not make it ring. Besides if I don't feed the livestock and myself, this farm will wither away to nothing before long. With a sigh I get out of my seat and leave Jack's room. His Labrador Retriever, Rufus, perks up when I move and follows me. He's probably hoping I'll get around to eating so he can finish off my scraps.

"Good boy," I tell him, my voice weak from disuse. I really don't know what else to say. His tail wags briefly and then slumps down again. He's missing Jack too.

I go through the rest of the day in a daze as one action blends in to the next. By six o'clock I've fed all the animals, milked the cows, moved around the hale bales, mucked out the chickens, brushed the horses, and swept, wiped down, and generally tidied up the house, all with Rufus at my side. I make a mental note to eat a decent meal but I can't bring myself to make the effort. Feeding Rufus is the last thing I do before sitting by the phone again. The sky darkens and the sun sets while I wait out another night by this wretched telephone. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is the faint whine Rufus lets out as he thinks of the man we both wish would come home.

* * *

I don't know how much later it is when I'm awoken by the sound of the phone ringing but the outside world is still black as pitch. I spring up from the desk so violently that the movement sends an avalanche of ledger papers into the air. The phone is in my hands before I made the conscious decision to grab it; the mouthpiece is by my lips before I realize I've said something.

"Hello?" I shout, the desperation clear in my voice, "Jack-God, Jack where've you been?!"

Jack coughs on the other end of the line and the noise is unclear. I hope to God that the stupid telephone lines stay connected for this conversation.

"Effie MacFarlane? Is that you?"

My heart plummets into my stomach because that voice is not Jack's voice. I want to hang up the phone because no other call but his matters right now but I can't will my hands to move.

"Miss MacFarlane, it's Wade Johnson. Do you remember me? I'm Leigh Johnson's son."

I'm too broken up to answer him but I do remember Wade Johnson. My Aunt Bonnie had told me that his father had raised him from birth to become Armadillo's Marshall after he, himself stepped down. While this passage of a job position down a bloodline confused me when I'd first heard of it, I understood the idea better after I met Marshall Leigh Johnson in person. His son, while just as direct and dedicated to that line of work as he was, carries none of Mr. Johnson's cynicism and general bitterness towards the world.

"Miss MacFarlane, are you there?" Wade prompts me, his voice coming out scratchy due to the long distance between us. I blow a couple brown curls out of my face and muster enough emotion to answer him without sounding like a dead man.

"Yes, sorry! How are you, Mr. Johnson?"

There's a pause as my words travel down the line. I notice that I'd awoken Rufus with my barrage of papers.

"Good, thanks. In case you haven't heard, I just got promoted from Sheriff's Deputy to Marshall a few months back."

A few months ago Abigail Marston was still alive. A few months ago Jack was still at home.

"That's great news!" I exclaim, forcing myself to sound pleased, "I bet Jonah isn't too happy about that."

Jonah was one of the other Sheriff Deputies back when I still made trips down to Armadillo. If Wade Johnson hadn't been around, he would most likely have been next in line for the Marshall position. That would've been a disaster. Wade is only eighteen years old and he's still a better candidate for that job than Jonah.

"That he ain't." Wade admits with a chuckle, "But he's a good enough deputy to follow my orders anyway so it don't matter."

I can't think of any way to reply to this so I just wait silently. Rufus pads over and places his big head in my lap.

"I've been trying to reach you for a couple of days, Miss MacFarlane," Wade Johnson goes on after a moment, "I tried Blackwater but your old man told me you hadn't been there in a while. At MacFarlane's ranch your grandfather said you'd been gone for months and to try the telephone at Beecher's Hope. You're a tricky girl to find, y'know that?"

With a pang I realize how long it has been since my aunt and grandpa had heard from me. I push the feeling down and scratch Rufus behind the ears.

"I can't imagine why you've been looking for me, Mr. Johnson."

There's another brief silence after my words go through the line. This one is different than the others though. This silence is a promise of something to come. We've gotten down to the root of the matter and it's clearly a topic the young Marshall isn't comfortable with.

"Miss MacFarlane…" he begins slowly, "When was the last time you saw or spoke to Jack Marston?"

I hear his name and my heart rate speeds up to a pace that makes it hard to breathe. Rufus notices my discomfort and shifts his head to look up at me. This is it. Wade Johnson is going to tell me that Jack is dead, that they have found his body or his gun or his father's hat somewhere in the desert.

"I-I spoke to him over the telephone nearly two weeks ago," I stutter, "He w-was in Plainview."

"I see."

There's another pause but this time I'm the one who tries desperately to break it.

"Have you seen him, Marshall?" I ask and I'm sure the fear is clear in my voice. Tears fill my eyes as I await my own death sentence.

"To be quite frank with you, I'm not sure."

This sentence alone is enough to shock me back to life. I gasp for air as I try to get in my next words as quickly as I can.

"What do you mean?"

A wolf howls outside, closer to the ranch than I'd be comfortable with on a normal night. But this is not a normal night. Tonight I'd let a thousand wolves invade the ranch before I moved away from the telephone.

"There's been…a sighting. Herbert Moon described someone who looked remarkably like the late John Marston around the outskirts of town." Wade Johnson explains, "That's not the real problem though. To be honest I didn't want to bother you at all but the only people I know of who still communicate with Jack Marston are some of the members of your family and one Seth Briars."

I'm speechless. All I can think about is the slight chance that Jack may still be alive. In another corner of my mind I vaguely note that Seth, who'd recently found his treasure and started a new life in Blackwater, should not be bothered with this news.

"Don't call Seth." I demand as soon as I find my voice.

"Yes ma'am." Wade replies, "But the issue at hand isn't really one I've got time to explain in this way. You know how untrustworthy these telephone lines can be."

That I do. I'd faced that problem frequently back when Jack still called me.

"I'll be there in a few hours."

"Good. On any other occasion I'd insist that you don't rush yourself but this really is an emergency."

"See you in the morning, Marshall."

"Goodbye, Miss MacFarlane. See you soon."

Quick as a flash I set the receiver and mouthpiece down on Jack's desk and sprint into my own room (which used to belong to Uncle before his untimely death). I throw a water flask and hunting knife into the satchel I keep hanging on my headboard and change into something more suitable for travel by horseback. Sidesaddle was never a strong talent of mine and dresses don't allow for any other type of riding. Satchel in hand, I burst out of the front door and make the short trip over to the barn in record time. Before fifteen minutes have passed my horse, War, is tacked up and ready to go, my semi-automatic pistol is in its holster, and my Winchester repeater is on my back. I make a brief stop to say my goodbyes to Rufus. He's always been a hunting dog and can take care of himself for the couple of days that I'll be gone but I still don't feel comfortable leaving him alone.

It's almost two a.m. when I finally leave Beecher's hope. If the journey goes off without a hitch I'll be in Armadillo by sunrise.

* * *

War and I keep going until we reach our destination without a single stop for water or rest. We gallop through Thieves' Landing and my own family's ranch without pause. Only when I finally see the schoolhouse of Armadillo in front of me do I pull on the reigns and allow my horse to slow down.

I slide off War's back outside the Sheriff's office (which also doubles as a local jail) and hitch the tired horse to a post nearby.

"Sorry boy," I murmur as I pat War's head, "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Y'need somethin'?" a thick, country accent rings out from behind me. I spin around to see none other than Jonah standing by the doorway. He doesn't look happy to see me but that's normal for him.

"Hey Jonah." I greet the bitter man, "Did you forget me already?"

His eyes brighten in recognition as they evaluate my face. He doesn't look any more pleased but the acknowledgement is something, at least.

"Course not. I ain't never forgotten nothin'."

He turns around in the doorway and speaks to someone inside.

"Hey Marshall! That MacFarlane girl is here."

There's a muffled _thunk_ from inside the building as someone responds to this information.

"Well what're you waitin' for? Invite her in!"

The voice speaking belongs to Wade Johnson; of that much I am certain. I turn back to my horse and remove my bag from his saddle.

"Get in." Jonah says and, without pausing to see if I'll follow, disappears inside. I almost feel like smiling because of this bad-tempered man but I can't stop worrying about Jack long enough to do it. I take the steps two at a time and stop only when I can see Wade Johnson sitting behind the Marshall's desk.

"Miss MacFarlane," he says, standing up to shake my hand, "It's good to have you here. I wish it was under better circumstances."

My eyes rove around the Sheriff's office and the two jail cells. Not much has changed. It looks like the cells got new locks though, so that's something. Wade Johnson, on the other hand, has grown a lot since I last saw him. He's skinnier than a stick and even taller than Jack is. His straight black hair is longer than before and falls into his face at the front. Wade's eyes, almost the same shade of blue as mine, seem happy to see me.

"You still as good a shot as you were when we last met?" he says as he offers me the seat in front of the desk. I feel Jonah's eyes boring holes into the back of my head as he fidgets behind me. He's seen my shooting firsthand.

"Best in the west." I joke half-heartedly. Wade Johnson smiles back briefly before fixing Jonah with a scowl.

"Make yourself useful and go find Eli, will you?" he demands of the sheriff's deputy. Jonah nods once and marches out the door, his head held high. I inwardly suspect that the Marshall sent him away for a reason other than the one he admitted aloud.

"So…" I begin.

"Miss MacFarlane, before we go on I have to point out that you don't look like you're doing too well."

"What?" I say sharply. Even in this day and age, commenting on a woman's appearance is considered taboo.

"What I mean to say is, when is the last time you ate?"

"Um…couple hours ago I suppose." I lie. Marshall Johnson nods as if he believes me but I somehow feel he knows the truth.

"If you don't mind sticking around a few hours I'll make sure to get some food in you." he says carefully. But as tired as I am, and as worried as I feel about Jack, I can't bring myself to think much on his kindness. I grip the strap of my satchel more tightly as I get down to the point of this meeting.

"Marshall, why am I here?"

The man before me sighs audibly and removes the hat from his head. It is only then that I remember he is not much older than me. Wade Johnson is the Marshall of Armadillo now but you wouldn't know it by looking at him. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me with a more serious expression.

"As I said, there's been a sighting of a man who looks a mighty deal like the late John Marston. Others have reported seeing somethin' similar but, as the culprit was wearing a bandana, they can't be too sure."

"A bandana." I repeat.

"Yes, ma'am. A red one."

My heart skips a beat at those words. A red bandana. Or, more likely, a red scarf. My red scarf. The one I gave Jack just before he left the farm to hunt down his father's killer.

"Here comes the bad part. I hope you're listening because I do not want to repeat this."

I nod at Wade Johnson, signifying that he has my attention.

"As you very well know, Armadillo is home a great many people. From gang members to honest, hard-working folk, we have them all."

"Mhm."

"Now as much as I'd love to go around shooting every no good son of a bitch in town, excuse my French, my job description requires me to give everyone a fair and legal trial."

I stifle a snort at this news. Both Wade and I know that around here a lot of exceptions are made in that area.

"Furthermore, a lot of these boys that run in gangs aren't actually bad people. They have families same as all of us and don't get involved in any killin' or stealin'. They even help out the law when it benefits them. Do you see where I'm going with this, Miss Effie?"

Wade eyes me carefully and I shrug.

"I can't say I do, to be honest."

"Someone's been goin' around at night killin' the men I just mentioned. And sometimes innocent people get caught in the crossfire. It ain't right and I'm starting to think it has something to do with the appearance of this bandana fella."

My heartbeat quickens as I think on the Marshall's words. Normally I would never believe that Jack would harm anyone, but the Jack that left Beecher's Hope nearly two weeks ago was not one I know very well.

"Why haven't you caught him, if you're so sure?" I ask. Marshall Johnson closes his eyes and rests his forehead on one open palm.

"If it truly is Jack Marston doing this I'd rather let him go with a warning. I owe his father that much. That won't be possible if we place him under arrest."

He opens his eyes and stands up.

"Besides, nobody here would last in a shootout against a Marston. I know that. It's why I called you down here. I was hopin' that if he was seen again you could talk some sense into him."

I give a noncommittal jerk of the head but I know that I'll do anything I can to help Jack. If that means standing in front of his loaded gun and talking him down, so be it.

"Miss MacFarlane, I think it's about time we got some food in you," Johnson says, "If you'll come with me to the Saloon, I'll-"

"MARSHALL!" a new voice shouts over the end of Wade's sentence, "MARSHALL YOU HAFTA GET OUT HERE!"

The other Sheriff's Deputy, Eli, bursts through the office door panting like a dog after a ten mile raccoon chase. His lazy eye looks resolutely away from us as he shouts.

"IT AIN'T GOOD, MARSHALL! HE'S GOT HIS GUN ON JONAH! THEY'RE FACIN' OFF IN FRONT OF THE SALOON!"

In one swift movement Marshall Johnson is out from behind his desk and in front of the deputy. In this moment I am sure that he was the right choice for the Marshall of Armadillo.

"Eli, who is it?" he says calmly, taking a Springfield rifle down from its position on the wall, "_Who has Jonah?_"

"Like you thought, Marshall," Eli says between pants, "It's that Marston kid."

The world seems to slow down around me as his words reach my ears. I'm up and out of my seat before either Eli or the Marshall have made another move. I blow past War, still hitched in front of the Sheriff's office, and down the one street in Armadillo faster than I'd ever thought I could move. As I near the saloon I see that there is indeed a crowd gathered around it. People I know well are mixed up in that crowd, from Mintie Cummings to the store owner Herbert Moon. They're all fixated on the spectacle before them, something I cannot yet see.

"MOVE!" I scream as I push through the spectators, plowing in like a bull. Women cry out in protest and men give low grunts of disdain as I make my way to the front of the crowd. The sight I see nearly makes me choke on air.

Jack Marston and Jonah are standing five yards apart with guns pointed at each other's faces. My red scarf is loose around Jack's neck, like it's slipped from its position over the lower half of his face. His beige jacket has blood splattered over one side, and as I'm standing behind him I can't see much more than that. Across from him Jonah looks like a deer caught in the headlights. If the situation wasn't so frightening the look on his face may have even been comical.

"D'you know who you're messin' with?!" Jonah demands.

"Yeah actually. Aren't you that deputy that, _after fifteen years_, still wasn't good enough to be Marshall?" Jack says in reply. In contrast to Jonah, Jack's tone is even and calm. He doesn't seem worried at all.

"_You shut your mouth, you sorry prick!_"

"Is that what you want?"

Jonah spits on the ground between them.

"What's it look like?"

I can almost hear the certainty in Jack's voice when he speaks again. He's going to kill Jonah. He's going to kill Jonah and he doesn't mind it one bit.

"Then make me."

"Out of the way!" Wade Johnson calls out from the back of the crowd. In less than a minute he'll reach my position. We may not have that much time as Jonah's trigger finger is twitching something fierce.

My mind is blank as I, without any plan to speak of, spring forward into the "arena". It was as if my limbs had taken control of me and propelled me there instead of the other way around. Several of the townspeople gasp and even Jonah loosens his grip on his gun as I run to Jack. I throw my arms around his middle and bury my face in the back of his jacket.

"_Don't do it,_" I say, quietly enough that only the two of us can hear it, "_Please."_

If Jack didn't know who I was before he does now. His gun is still pointed at Jonah's head but I can tell that's more out of shock than continued vindictiveness.

"Let's go home." I whisper. He doesn't move, doesn't speak to me. Marshall Johnson shouts out from behind us.

"Jonah, put the gun down!"

The fuming deputy refuses to do as asked.

"This no-good son of a bitch has been shootin' innocents, Marshall!"

Jack tenses up at this. I can feel all the anger coming back to him with a vengeance. And I don't just mean anger at Jonah, or Armadillo, or whatever the hell this is. All the anger Jack has felt since losing his father has led us up to this moment. This is either our extinction event or the beginning of something entirely more dangerous.

"_AND IT WAS FUCKING COWARDLY LAWMEN LIKE YOU WHO SHOT MY FATHER DOWN IN FRONT OF HIS FAMILY_!" Jack spits the words like venom. As close as I was to his parents, I know that this isn't strictly true. Jack and his mother were not present when John Marston was shot down. Still, I don't think it will help to point this out.

"We had nothing to do with that and you know it." Wade Johnson reasons, "My pa even refused to be a part of the shooting squad that did it."

He sounds calm and in control. For his sake, I hope it's not an act.

"Your _father_," Jack says the word with distaste evident in his voice, "Didn't do shit for mine when he got the chance. Didn't stand with him. So don't you tell me about what I do and don't know."

That shuts Wade up real quick. There's truly nothing he can do. At this point, either Jack or Jonah is going to open fire and Wade Johnson will be forced to try and gun down my friend.

"Jack," I say, finding my voice again, "_You can't do this_."

A lengthy amount of time passes before Jack chooses to answer me. Too much time. This standoff has morphed into something I've only ever read about in novels and Jonah won't hold himself back for much longer. The entire town is watching with bated breath as the outlaw and the deputy face off. The only thing that will satisfy them is blood.

"I have to." he whispers. No one can hear him but me.

"You can't fix it. Even if you do this, you can't fix it, Jack. No one can fix this, no matter how many people you kill."

Jack's hand shakes visibly as he contemplates my words. In front of us, Jonah notices the change in him and begins to lower his own weapon.

"I just want them back," the boy…man I'm clinging to says weakly.

"Me too." I say after a moment. And that's that. That's all there is to say.

The Cattleman revolver falls from Jack's hand and hits the dirt road with a thud. The crowd of spectators responds to this development with a resounding gasp. Jack's breathing is heavy as he makes the decision to spare Jonah and, by extension, Wade and Eli as well.

"All right people, clear on out!" Marshall Johnson shouts as it becomes evident that the stand-off has ended, "Don't you fools have anythin' better to do? Say, your jobs maybe?"

Grumbling, the crowd disperses fairly easily. I don't miss the looks they give me and Jack, though. They know us. They've known us since we were kids. Wade Johnson moves in our direction and, as I release Jack to face him, I'm surprised to see he's leading my horse.

"Get on this horse, Mr. Marston," he says firmly, "And get out of this town. I'd suggest that you don't make another appearance around here for a while."

Jack glares at the man for a long moment before nodding briskly and hopping up on my horse's back. I'm pleased to see that War doesn't throw him off. Jack holds out his hand to me and I clamber on behind him. He spurs the horse forward but before we can go anywhere Wade catches the reins.

"We ain't your enemies. Remember that." he says this to both of us. Jonah speaks up at this point, something I'm surprised he didn't do earlier.

"We can't just let 'im go!" he complains.

"That's exactly what we're gonna do." Wade answers without missing a beat, "And what's that you've got there?"

The other deputy, Eli, pries the object from Jonah's grip when the latter refuses to answer.

"It's the Marston kid's gun, sir!"

"Give it here."

Eli passes the Cattleman to the Marshall under the disdainful gaze of Jonah. The Marshall then hands the weapon gingerly to Jack.

"I trust you'll use it for the right reasons."

Jack doesn't answer and instead tucks the gun away in its holster. He then nods at the Marshall in parting and whips the reins. My horse complies with this demand good-naturedly enough and trots forward at an even speed. When we are clear of any possible accidents, War breaks into a gallop.

"AND FOR GOODNESS' SAKE, GET SOME FOOD INTO THAT POOR GIRL!" Wade calls out after us. In spite of myself I allow a small smile to grace my lips. This is the first time in two weeks that everything has felt decent.

We're headed towards Beecher's Hope-towards _home_ and I find that I have come to terms with a few things. Most importantly, Jack is going to be okay. I am going to be okay. There will always be bumps in the road but they only serve to slow a man down.

Jack spurs the horse again, willing him to go faster. He does. As Armadillo fades away into nothing my mind is at ease. I can breathe easy for one more day.


	4. In Need of Experience

**A/N- I actually made it to chapter four! Again, thank you for all your support. So this chapter has more JackxOC than the previous ones and more action than them too. Danai Y: i described Effie in this chapter :) and thank you so much for your review Evelynn! It makes me want to keep writing.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

In Need of Experience:

Sweat beads on my brow as I aim for my target, a gray-coated wolf about 700 meters away. I've been sitting on the roof of the Marston ranch house for the past half hour, trying to take down the same wolf's entire pack. The gun digs a bit deeper into my shoulder every time I fire a round until I've lost all feeling in that area.

"You have to keep him in your sights, Effie," Jack calls up from below, "Make sure the crosshairs are right on 'im."

"It's too heavy!" I complain for about the thousandth time. Jack rolls his eyes, also for about the thousandth time.

"You can shoot a hat off a man's head from _200 meters_ with your pistol. You shouldn't be havin' this much trouble with a Carcano."

Grumbling to myself, I return to staring down the lone wolf through my scope. I'd picked off a few of his pack when they'd gotten too close to the cows but I've been generally unsuccessful in every other aspect. Somehow, I don't expect my next couple shots will be on target either.

When Jack and I had gotten back home from Armadillo, the first thing I did was punch him hard in the gut. If it had been any other day in any other setting, he wouldn't have even felt the blow. But that day his guard was down. He'd doubled over, groaning in pain, but didn't react otherwise.

* * *

"What the hell Jack?!" I demand as he moves, still bent over, into the living room. Rufus prances along after him, simply overjoyed to see his master again. Jack collapses on the couch with a low moan. I go over to the couch as well and roll him over so he's facing up.

"Hey," he greets me. I glare at him before jamming a forefinger into his ribcage. He yelps and bats my hand away.

"Would you stop tryin' to kill me?" he chokes out, massaging the damaged area. I shake my head furiously and cross my arms over my chest.

"Not until you tell me _exactly _what happened since that last telephone call I got from you two weeks ago."

Jack scowls at me and pulls himself up to a sitting position. For some reason I feel both angry and overjoyed all at once. It's been so long since I've seen any real emotion on his face that his annoyance is making me happy.

"I killed him. Ross. We dueled and I killed him."

I blink a couple of times before taking a seat on the couch beside him. He rubs his hands together and continues to speak.

"It didn't…I didn't feel any better. I thought I would but I didn't. And I didn't wanna call you or come home until I felt like somethin' was different. Then I took down a couple of people in Armadillo because I knew some of those guys were plannin' on kidnappin' MacGuffin's daughter next week."

"How'd you find that out?" I say, eyes wide with surprise.

"You hear a lot of gossip in a saloon."

Rufus, clearly upset that no one has paid him any mind yet, barks at us with his tail wagging hard. Jack smiles a bit at the dog and ruffles his fur.

"Why were you tryin' to kill Jonah?" I ask. That whole duel was a bit of a shock for me since I've never thought Jack the kind who'd end up in front of a lawman's gun. I guess I've gotten a lot from him in the past few months that I didn't expect.

"The idiot came at me with a gun," he says accusingly, "What was I supposed to do?"

I fight back a bought of laughter, remembering the comical look on Jonah's face as he'd stared down the business end of Jack's revolver. Jack doesn't notice this, too busy seething over the encounter. Glancing at him I remember the other thing Wade Johnson had told me back in his office. The innocents. There's no way Jack would kill innocent people by choice, I know that. Still, I feel worried as I pose the question to him. I don't want to hear anything that will make me fear him.

"It wasn't me that killed that girl." Jack replies quickly, looking upset, "I got into a shootout with some guy from Walton's Gang. He used her like a human shield until he got out of the bar and then shot her."

He's looking down at his hands as he recounts this and I can tell how sorry he is. Even if he won't admit it, Jack and his father have a lot of things in common. Being distressed over a death they could've prevented is one of these things. I think to myself that if John Marston could see his son now, he'd be proud.

"He didn't have to shoot her. He could've let her go." Jack continues, "I still remember the look on her face. If I ever see him again I'll-"

"I know." I interrupt, not wanting to get Jack riled up. I'd rather not have him running back to Armadillo just a few moments after getting home. Besides, this is the most Jack has said to me in a long while. It's a big step forward and I'm not about to mess that up.

"So…" I try a different route of conversation, "What happens now?"

Jack just looks at me.

"I'd like to sleep pretty soon." he says. He looks confused though, and I assume it's because I haven't been very clear.

"Um…I meant-" I break off abruptly, gathering my thoughts, "I meant after. From now on."

He swallows, avoiding my gaze, then stands up, his eyes on one of the cow skulls that adorn the walls of the house. I've always wondered why it was that the Marstons chose to decorate their house with a variety of animal bones, but it does have a certain rustic allure.

"I know what I should say." he admits, still not meeting my gaze, "I'm supposed to stay here, right? Be a rancher like my dad wanted."

Somehow it seems less like he's speaking to me and more like he's speaking to himself. So, I stay still, worried that he may stop talking if he remembers I'm here. A lot of times it feels like Jack's a wild animal and I'm trying to coax him out of a bush or something.

"But I don't want that," he pauses and turns to me, "At least not yet. Is that stupid?"

So he hadn't forgotten about me.

"No."

"When I took down those pricks in Armadillo, I felt," he takes a deep breath before continuing, "I felt good. Like I'd done somethin' worth doing."

I think about the stories Mr. Marston used to tell us and the western novels we used to read together and I understand perfectly what he's saying. Being the hero in those tales is everyone's wildest dream.

For a moment I just watch Jack and try to imagine how he must see me: curly, untamable hair loose around my shoulders, attentive blue eyes. Most of all, though, I'm aware of how small I must seem to him. At around six feet, he's never had to worry about reaching the top cupboard shelf in his life. This is why I worry that what I come up with next will not sit well with him.

"Then that's what we should do."

He freezes up as I propose this, eyes unblinking, chest not moving as he breathes. I can already tell what he's going to say next.

"We." he repeats, and there is no inflection in his tone.

"We." I refuse to budge. We're locked into a stare down of sorts and I find that it's not easy to stop myself from breaking his gaze.

"There is no we." he says with the same monotone voice, "_You_ ain't gettin' involved in this. Ever."

"Why not?!" I demand, pushing up from the couch, "I can do this! I can shoot better than you, Jack Marston, and you know it!"

He moves back towards the couch, towards me. Jack's a good ten inches taller than me so being this close forces him to have to look down.

"I don't care if you can outshoot Landon Ricketts," he almost growls, "I won't let you give up your life that easy."

In my head it's easier to admit that I am scared. The Marstons have the remarkable ability to frighten off any friendly faces within a thirty mile radius with just one look and that's the look Jack is giving me now. Even Mrs. Marston had been known to use it on occasion when Uncle put his filthy boots on the dining room table.

"This isn't giving up, this is a choice. _My_ choice," I emphasize, "Everything I have will still be here when I come back for it."

Jack laughs softly but I can tell he's not amused. He's mocking me.

"That's what my dad thought. Now he's six feet under."

That sentence hits me harder than a slap would have. We've talked about John Marston's death before in passing, but never so blatantly. And the anger-anger at his father no less-is more obvious in his tone than it's ever been before. Even so, I decide to try again.

"You and I both know you're not going to stay here." I hiss, unwilling to back down, "And you can't go alone. You're too emotional; you'd be dead in a week."

We just stand there glaring at each other, face to face, noses only inches apart. Eventually, though, I see something soften in Jack's expression. He backs down, rubbing his temple with two calloused fingers. He looks tired. Considering that I didn't get more than a few hours sleep last night, I must look pretty worn out too. Without warning he turns away from me and stalks off to the kitchen. Confused, I don't follow him immediately, but hurry after him as soon as I gather my wits about me. By the time I get to the brightly lit room his boots are disappearing up the ladder to the attic.

"What are you doin' now?" I call up after him. There's no reply but I hear the sound of something heavy being moved around above me. After a minute there's a loud crash and I single out my friend's voice letting out a string of curses. An object scrapes across the attic floor and falls through the entrance. As it hits the ground with a resounding clatter I notice that it's an old and worn suitcase. Jack jumps down after the suitcase, landing just barely in front of it.

"You need to understand something." he advances on me as if he didn't just fall out of the ceiling two seconds ago, "I never wanted to involve you in…this."

He gestures wildly, indicating (I assume) his entire world. I narrow my eyes, upset by his words.

"I'm already in it." I say adamantly. Instantly, he shakes his head.

"Not this. I don't mean that shit out there," he jerks his head towards the largest kitchen window, "I'm talkin' about what's inside my head and trust me, it ain't pretty. If you do this, you'll be thinkin' the same."

This, I know. If his actions are any indication to go by his thoughts must be a complete mess. When he stood by his father's grave and refused to cry, I thought I understood. Maybe understanding wasn't enough.

"You're not supposed to have this life. Do you know who you are?" Jack continues, "Patrick MacFarlane is _your_ father. You could be someone important. This is what you're supposed to do: Marry a decent guy and live safe and happy."

I blink rapidly to cover up my surprise and lean against the table that's pushed up next to the wall. I don't know how to respond to this. I'd imagined Jack saying a lot of things, most of them relative to my inability to hunt down potential targets, but nothing like this. I'd never realized he'd given a single thought to me having a different life.

"…I wouldn't be happy that way," I say after a while, gaining a look of discontent from Jack, "Besides, we promised we'd stick together. Remember?"

He's silent, but I know he remembers this. Even if the entire world shattered we'd both remember that promise. Instead of answering me he lifts up the battered suitcase and places it on the table I'm leaning against.

"What's in there?" I ask as he clicks the suitcase open. Inside is what looks like a pile of rags and winter coats. Jack rifles through the coats and pulls up what looks like a pair of women's trousers.

"My ma's riding clothes," he says, smoothing the fabric out, "From back when she was with the gang. You and her are about the same height so they'll fit you."

I think back, recalling Mrs. Marston's somewhat curvaceous figure, and doubt this extremely. However, my sowing skills are fairly high-end thanks to finishing school. I could make the clothes fit after a few nips and tucks.

Jack lays down his mother's old clothes and continues to dig around in the suitcase until he eventually comes across a very familiar vest. My breathe catches in my throat at the sight of the laurel green cloth and the tan button-down shirt beneath it. Mr. Marston's clothes. I can tell that this is not the set he died in, though, due to the lack of bullet holes. Jack lays down his father's clothes beside his mother's and turns back to me.

"If we're gonna do this, you've gotta give up on wearing nice clothes," he looks me up and down pointedly, "And keeping as clean as you do."

I brush out the skirt of my light blue summer dress and feel a sense of worry for the first time. Girls of my station are expected to dress a certain way and that way includes a corset, slip, petticoat, gown or dress, and sensible shoes or boots. Giving that up feels a little bit like sacrilege.

"Trousers." Jack gestures towards his mother's clothes, "And experience. That's what you need."

* * *

As it turns out, experience truly is what I need. Although I'd proven on our first day of 'training' (that's what Jack had taken to calling it at least) that I still had unmatchable skill with pistols, revolvers, and repeaters, my talent in other areas was less than satisfactory. For one, rifles seem to be too heavy for me to carry and use regularly. I've also shown that my lasso throws aren't firm enough and that I am nowhere nearly as good as I need to be with throwing knives and sniper rifles.

"Shoot the wolf, Effie!" Jack resumes his encouragement, making me feel like a dog, "Shoot it! You can do it, come on!"

I groan and try to keep the crosshairs of my gun right on the damned creature like Jack's telling me too. How on earth is it that I never miss my mark with a repeater, but never hit it with this monstrous Carcano?

On the hill across my field of vision, the wolf perks up and looks around. I get the feeling that he's finally caught on to the fact that I'm trying to shoot him. My finger wavers over the trigger a half-second too long and the wolf scampers out of sight just as my bullet hits the spot where he used to be.

"GOD D-"

"Language!" Jack shouts, keeping me in check. I shut my mouth quickly but the curse continues to bounce around in my head much longer than I'm comfortable with.

"Effie, it's gettin' late. Let's get inside, we'll try again tomorrow."

I nod and lean over the edge of the roof to pass the Carcano rifle down to him, but inwardly I'm disappointed. I'm not used to failing so miraculously and I've decided that I'd be perfectly happy never doing so again. Sadly, it seems as if I'll be failing a lot over my next month of training. I thought I was prepared for this life, and clearly I'm not. But when I slide off the roof and land beside Jack, I know I've made the right choice.

* * *

"Maybe it was too soon," Jack says and I can hear the worry quite clearly in his voice, "We should just get back to the farm and-"

"No."

"We've only been doing this a week it's-"

"_No._"

Our horses gallop out of Blackwater at an even speed, each trying in vain to outdo the other. I look at the two of them and wonder why we both had to have black horses. Black horses are for killers and thieves, not potential heroes. Still, you'd be hard pressed to find two more reliable horses than ours.

In Jack's hand is a rather crumpled wanted poster for one Zebedee Nash: bounty of $300 dead and $600 alive. If we can get him back to the Blackwater jail we'll have made decent headway into our travelling funds. Jack has been trying to convince me that this will not be easy, that killing a man is much different than killing a wolf or a raccoon, but I need this. If I don't learn now I never will.

"Bearclaw Camp isn't too far," I point out as we near the river north of Blackwater, "At least it's closer than Nekoti Rock."

A reluctant shiver passes through both our bodies at that and I know we are remembering the same thing. Three years ago, Jack and I had tried to take down a bear at Nekoti Rock to prove to Mr. Marston that we were mature. We weren't. If he hadn't shown up to save our asses that day, we'd have both been dead. Jack still has the scars.

"Don't try to be a hero," he warns me, "If it's easier to just shoot 'im, that's what we do."

I roll my eyes and spur War forward, breaking ahead of Jack just a little bit. Kill Nash and lose $300? I don't think so.

By the time we get to Manzanita Post, Jack is positively quaking in his boots. He's killed someone before. He has no reason to be worried when I, who have never harmed another human, feel so confident. The storekeeper's wife, May, waves at us as we pass but Jack doesn't even notice. He's looking a bit green actually.

"Hey, are you okay?" I ask, leaning towards him as we trot into the forest. In the distance I can hear a train whistling as it makes its stop in Manzanita. I glance back, wondering if I can spot it from the hill above the train station, when Jack answers.

"Let's talk about something else, please." he sounds like he's going to be sick.

"Okay, ah…" I look around the woods, hoping that something conversation worthy will present itself, "So it's gonna start snowing soon."

Jack meets my gaze momentarily, a brief grin spreading across his face.

"You'll love that. Remember when you fell off a hill and it took me thirty minutes to dig you out of that snowpile?"

I laugh openly now, thinking of us back then. Everything seemed so much brighter. Unfortunately, we're nearing the Nash's last known location so I don't have time to reminiscence as much as I'd like.

"It was freezing," I recount, pulling on War's reigns, "But I was happy."

Jack stops his horse completely and slides off beside a high rock pile. I dismount too, and he speaks again as I join him.

"So was I."

We approach Bearclaw Camp from the south, deciding that we'd be better able to see all the cabins, and by extension the targets, from that side. We duck behind a log pile to discuss strategy just as a pair of men walking out of the nearest cabin.

"I heard the boss-man sayin' we're headed for Twin Rocks in a couple days." a gravelly voice announces. Behind the logs I raise my eyebrows at Jack questioningly. He shakes his head and puts one finger in front of his lips, demanding silence.

"'Bout time. It's gettin' mighty chilly up here." another man replies in a thick southern accent. The voices drift away as the men get further and further from us. Jack chances a peek over the log pile and seems to find nothing of interest.

"They're headed north," he says as he ducks back down, "Do you think you can outrun them?"

While normally I'd say yes, today I'd refused point-blank to don Mrs. Marston's old clothes and kept to my regular attire. I'd reasoned that there'd be plenty of time to get used to trousers in the coming month but I now realize that this might be one choice I'd end up regretting. Jack glances over and comes to the same realization I did seconds ago.

"Okay. Okay." he repeats the word as if it will help him maintain focus, "Okay, then it'll have to be just me. I'll make the run and you cover me from above."

"Above?"

He gestures towards a low cliff not too far from the campsite. I know what this means. I'm going to have to use the Carcano rifle.

"Jack, I'm not so sure that's a good idea," I say, feeling nervous for the first time.

"You'll be fine. They'll be aimin' at me and you'll be out of the way."

I don't tell him that this is exactly what I'm worried about. He doesn't realize that I care for his safety more than my own. And then Jack takes my hand in his out of nowhere and I can't think about anything else.

"Effie." he says my name breathlessly and I know he's terrified too, "Don't be a hero. If they get me, run and tell a lawman."

I don't respond to this because I know that if it comes down to it I will not abandon him. Either we both survive today or neither of us does. I feel his fingers releasing mine as he stands up. I do the same and, sharing a parting glance, we head our separate directions. I set up the Carcano against a large stone on the rocky outcrop, hoping that the extra leverage will allow me to put less effort on my shoulder and aim better. Through the scope I spot Jack, preparing to run straight into a group of five armed and dangerous outlaws with only a Bolt Action rifle for protection. His chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath and suddenly, he's gone. I don't think I've ever seen him run that fast. He catches the men by surprise and is able to take down one of them before the others have even drawn their guns. I focus the crosshairs on one broad man with a thick beard and hold my breath. This is it. I'm about to take a human life.

I feel my finger press the trigger as if it's a phantom limb I have no control over, but I know that I meant to do it. I watch the bullet pierce the bearded criminal's temple as if in slow motion, burying itself in his skull and bursting through the other side. There's blood. Everything is red, _all I see is red_. The blood just keeps coming like a gusher and I feel that I'm mere seconds from fainting away. I never imagined that there'd be so much blood. Before I know what's happening the remaining three men have, despite my expectations, turned towards me. I gather my thoughts enough to know that I need to duck and collapse against the large rock I'd been using for leverage but, once there, I can't move. Shots ring out from beyond my field of vision but I can't think about that. I only see grass stained with blood, a limp body lying in a pool of red liquid. _Red_.

And then it's silent. I know I should be checking to see if the men are still alive or if Jack is but I can't move. I can't. Someone is approaching me, a gun in their hand and a wicked smile on their face. It's not Jack. He kneels down in front of me, his gun still pointed at my chest, and moves the Carcano out of my reach. It doesn't matter. I wouldn't have been able to use the thing even if I'd been holding it in my hands. The man before me has graying hair and a menacing mustache/beard combination, but I don't have much time to register this before he speaks.

"Kinda small, but you sure are pretty," he drawls and his voice disgusts me, "My, my look at those blue eyes. And that pale skin. What I wouldn't give to be in your dress right now."

I can't move. I want to throw up, but I can't move. Somewhere in my mind I understand that I should be screaming out for help but even the nausea isn't enough to draw a reaction from me. The stranger reaches forward and brushes a brown lock of hair out of my face.

"You think you're scared now? It ain't nothin' compared to how scared you're gonna be in little while."

He makes to put an arm behind my back and I understand that he intends to take me somewhere else. I can't force my limbs to move, can't make myself fight him. But then I hear a cracking sound as a brown object collides with the side of the vile man's head and he's fallen over. In another second somebody else is standing over him, striking him repeatedly with the butt of a rifle. There's more blood. I feel a few drops of it hitting my face as the stranger screams for help. In time his screams subside and the forest is silent once again.

"Effie?" a shaky voice breaks through that silence, "Effie, look at me. _Look at me!_"

I don't. The world goes dark around me and I can't hear Jack's voice anymore.

* * *

When I come to the world is moving beneath me. Or, more accurately, I'm moving over it. A pair of arms are wound around me, clutching the reigns of a pure black horse. Immediately I think of the stranger who'd made me feel sick in the woods and I prepare to elbow him in the gut. But then, he speaks.

"Relax," and the voice does not belong to a stranger, "It's just me."

I turn my head to see Jack seated directly behind me on his horse. War trots along after us but besides that we're alone.

"What about Nash?" I ask. Jack shakes his head.

"He was touching you and you weren't movin'. So I killed him." he says this all so straightforwardly, as if killing someone is that simple. I know now that it's not.

"We just lost $300!" I exclaim, half expecting him to laugh. When he doesn't I come to the realization that he's not his usual self. His father's hat is lopsided on his hair and he keeps fidgeting with the reigns. I wouldn't be surprised if his horse bucked us off soon.

"Why didn't you move."

It's a question, but it doesn't sound like one.

"I don't know," I admit, my voice sounding pathetic even to me. When this doesn't prompt a response from him, I press on.

"It was just-I shot him and there was so much blood and I-and the gun," I break off to take a deep breath, "It wasn't easy. I was expecting it to be easy."

Behind me, Jack is still silent. However, he does stop moving the reigns around and that's something. In time we'll be able to discuss the disaster we just averted but I that time is not now. In this moment I'm still not sure exactly why I'd frozen like I had.

Beecher's Hope is getting close, the top of the silo visible even from this distance. I lean back against him, taking comfort in his presence, and let the horse carry us there.

* * *

When I wake up the next day, Jack is nowhere to be found. At first I worry that he's left me again to destroy some evil being in God knows where, but then I spot his horse and breathe easy again. I scour the entire house and the barn in search of him, Rufus following me at a watchful distance, before I remember the silo. If I climb up there I'll have a better view of the farm.

The ladder is terribly lengthy, its rungs splintered and worn from disuse towards the top. I hold my handkerchief in my right hand as I make my way up, hoping it will stop any woodchips from getting stuck in my palm. When I reach the last rung and push up I spot a battered boot directly in front of me. Attached to it is the man I'd know anywhere. He's reading a book (the cover reads _Heart of Darkness_ by Joseph Conrad) but he pauses when he sees me.

"Hey." he says simply.

"Hi." I say back. I don't climb that last ladder rung. I've come to the conclusion that I won't be up here much longer.

"How are you feelin'?" he asks. His thumb idly traces the title on the book cover as he awaits my answer and I'm sure he's thinking about yesterday.

"Fine. You?"

His face is impassive as he considers my presence on the ladder. I already know how he feels. I haven't seen Jack calm enough to stay still and read a book since his father was alive.

"Good."

I smile at this and begin climbing back down the ladder. Before I can move my right hand, though, his is on it.

"I'll be inside in a little bit." he says to me. I nod and, once he releases me, continue my journey down the many rungs that adorn this wretched ladder. I've got a slight fear of heights and have to constantly remind myself to not look down. Therein lays the problem. How can I expect to get over my fear if I refuse to look down?

I chance a brief glance down at the world beneath me and my heart instantly shudders to a stop. My breathing turns to gasping in a second, but then my heart is beating again, giving life to my limbs. The fear doesn't disappear but maybe that's okay. After all, neither falling nor killing is an easy thing to do even if both are things I'll have to do in the near future. I remind myself that, with time, I can only progress.

I'm not like I was yesterday. Today I can move.


	5. Liar's Dice

**A/N- So here's chapter five and yes, it's a day late (sorry Axela!). I had some summer homework due yesterday. Anywayy thank you to those of you who have stuck with my story up until now. I appreciate the comment, Touko :) also I'll be introducing another OC in this chapter who will be making frequent appearances in the future and I'd love to hear any opinions on her. Sorry if things are a bit slow right now but I didn't want to dive into the important parts of the story without anything in between. Thanks again!**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Liar's Dice:

"You're bluffin'." Jack says with one hand still clamped over the upturned cup. I smirk brightly, trying to goad him.

"You sure about that?"

He narrows his eyes, suspicious, as a cool burst of wind tries to take my hair for a spin. I attempt to brush the curly mass back down as he glares at the three dice in front of my cup.

"There ain't no way, Effie." he insists.

"Bet on it if you're so sure." I say as casually as I can. I always feel surprised that, even after all this time, Jack still can't tell when I'm lying. The lamp flickers a bit as the wind whips up again. We were sitting in the gazebo, trying to enjoy the perfect evening weather, but (as per usual) our relaxation quickly turned into a horribly competitive game of liar's dice. Jack is better at this game than the average player. Unfortunately for him, I am better than the majority of players.

"Okay." he's scowling now, "I'm callin' it. Bluff."

I smile mischievously at the four dice he's tossed out so far and tap the table beside them. His eyes widen in shock.

"No."

"Yup."

"There's no-"

I interrupt him by lifting my cup and showing him the two sixes I'd been hiding. I then reach across the table to knock his aside as well, revealing his own six. Seeing this he leans back in his chair and throws his hands up in the air.

"There's no point in playin' this with you!"

I laugh at this and begin to move all my dice into a pile, ready to play, and win, again. This time, Jack stops me.

"I think I've had enough losin' for one night." he explains when it becomes obvious that I'll protest.

"Maybe I should go find someone who's actually good at this," I quip in hopes of getting him into a fighting spirit. It doesn't work. Jack just stands up and proceeds to put the dice and cups back in the box under the table. Watching him, I'm struck by a sudden desire for travel.

"Thieves' Landing."

"What?" Jack pauses in the act of pushing his chair in to meet my gaze. I nod vigorously, excited for the first time since we'd gone after that Zebedee Nash fellow. That had been a bit of a disaster and because of it, Jack's been wary of me getting involved in any dangerous activity.

"We should go!" I say, my words spilling out too fast, "You know they play liar's dice over there, I could win us a lot of money and we could even stop by the gun store-I heard they got a new shipment of-"

"That's a bad idea." he cuts me off cleanly. I press on, not a fan of being shut down.

"It's safe! No one's gonna bother me with you there, you _know _that. Plus my father owns the saloon so the bartender will keep an eye on me too."

"And what if he's there?" Jack jumps on my excuses, "What do you think he's gonna do if he sees his daughter at a saloon in _Thieves' Landing_?"

I grit my teeth because Jack actually has a point there. If my pa saw me anywhere near that place he'd have me packing and back in Blackwater by the end of the day. I push that thought to the back of my mind, certain that the chances of my father being there at the exact same time as me are very slim. I've been stuck on this ranch too long, though, and I'm really itching to play against someone who will actually bet money.

"Please." I rest my chin on one hand and try to look innocent, "Pretty please, Jack."

By this point he seems annoyed and I assume that it's because I've broken the unspoken 'no puppy eyes' rule between us. But I'm desperate and it's clear that my begging is already softening his resolve. He's looking at me kind of funny, not speaking…just looking.

"Is that a yes?" I ask. He stares at me a moment longer before groaning and giving up.

"Okay-" he breaks off as I let out a cheer, "Okay, but we're only goin' to the saloon. Nowhere else."

"Nowhere else." I repeat in agreement. He just shakes his head and starts walking back to the house. I follow him, knowing that he expects me to.

"We leave first thing in the morning and we're back by five, got it?"

"Okay."

"And you stick close to me. If you freeze up and I'm not around, it's not gonna end well for either of us."

I stop moving, upset that he's using my one failure against me yet again.

"That won't happen again," I say firmly. He glances back at me, skeptical, but I know he'll believe me in time. I'll prove it to him. We head up the stairs and past Rufus, who was napping on the porch, only to stop again at the doorways to our separate rooms. This part of the day is always a little awkward for me due to the fact that I just don't like saying goodnight to Jack. Back when we were kids we used to actually sleep in the same room, him on his bed and me on a cot Mr. Marston had taken out of the barn for me. Obviously that arrangement is impossible now (girls of marrying age can't just sleep in unmarried men's' rooms) but I still find that I miss it quite a bit.

"You go ahead and s-sleep," he says, stifling a yawn as he speaks, "I'll put out the fireplace and lock up the barn."

"Okay. Good night, Jack."

"'Night, Effie."

He turns away at that and heads towards the living room, stretching his arms out above his head. As I watch his retreating form I wonder if he knows that my heart skips a beat whenever he says my name. Probably not. I blush, embarrassed by the direction my mind was going in, and open the door to my room, determined to put those thoughts to bed for the night.

* * *

"So, about that mustache…" I begin. Jack lets out an audible sigh, his upper body swaying as his horse trots towards the main road.

"It's not going anywhere."

I stare at the ferret-like being growing above his other lip. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. It doesn't actually look bad, but it definitely makes him seem older than he is. Which is what he was going for, I'm sure.

"Anyway, did you see yesterday's paper?" he asks in an attempt to distract me. I decide to go along with him only because I know I'll never talk him out of the mustache.

"No. Why?"

Jack looks more serious now, his face set in a grim expression. Worried, I spur my horse to catch up with his. War whinnies indignantly but, after a moment's protest, does what I ask.

"They found Ross's body." he says darkly, "At the Scratching Post. It must have floated downriver and washed up there."

My heart slows a bit and my mind races as I consider this news. Fingerprint identification is a fairly new form of technology but it's possible that if Jack touched that body at all, they could trace it back to him.

"I know what you're thinkin'," he pipes up as soon as I have the thought, "No fingerprints or anything. I'm safe."

It unnerves me, the way he sometimes reads my mind like that. But then again we have been together for four years. Not for the first time I allow myself to think about how much Jack has changed. I remember how he used to be so uncomfortable with everything, barely at home at his own ranch. That Jack would never have guessed that he'd grow into the one beside me now. That Jack had difficulty killing wolves, let alone an entire pack of wanted outlaws.

"I think we're almost there," I announce after a few minutes. Dixon Crossing is up ahead, a rickety wooden plank set across the water; barely wide enough for a carriage to get across. War always gets nervous when walking on it and for good reason.

"Straight to the saloon," Jack reminds me, "No stopping, not even at the gun store."

I roll my eyes but it's obvious that I'll comply with his wishes. Somehow over the past few weeks, Jack has become the leader of our two-person gang. I normally would have been sore about this but I can't deny that he has much more experience with what we're planning than I do.

The Thieves' Landing Saloon is a perfect place for backwater criminal types to lay low in and, partly because it has the Dixie Rose next door, business is thriving. Even though my father had kept the deed to the saloon buried deep within his work desk at our house, I'd found it. I also knew, despite his assurances that 'it was just business', that his owning land in Thieves' Landing insured a certain understanding between him and the criminals who frequented the place. They would leave my father's various businesses alone as long as he helped keep the law out of their town.

We hitch our horses in front of saloon, giving both of them apples to keep them pacified until we finish our business inside. Despite what I'd told Jack, I'm slightly apprehensive about entering the saloon. Women who aren't working in the line of prostitution aren't really supposed to go inside places of ill repute due to the lack of safety and the general idea that no good can come of such an action. My hope is that everyone inside will leave me alone when they see Jack. Most criminals feared his father and try not to tangle spurs with him if they can avoid it. They're afraid he's just as good a shot as the elder Marston was.

"Well, look-y here!" a filthy man with a white top hat practically shouts as I step foot in the saloon, "Aren't you Patrick MacFarlane's-"

"Shut it." Jack says, giving the man a death glare. He clams up at once and I can't help but grin a little. It seems odd to me that these self-proclaimed law breakers are scared of nineteen year-old Jack Marston. We approach the liar's dice table, which is adjacent to the blackjack game, and look over the men seated there. I recognize Lyle Mouton, proprietor of the tailoring shop across the way, and Ray Warthington of Warthington ranch. Seeing the two of them makes me feel a slightly better about all this as neither is the type to kill a woman over a game of dice. I can't say the same about the rest of the saloon, though, as I'd seen quite a few men looking daggers at me since I'd walked in.

"Miss MacFarlane!" Lyle says, clearly scandalized, "Whatever are you doing in here?"

"We were just ridin' through and decided to drop by for a game, right Jack?" I explain away quickly before turning to my friend. This part of our conversation is practically scripted; we've planned it out so well. I know men. I know that they'll feel more comfortable dealing with me if they think I'm just following Jack's lead.

"Effie's been playin' a lot of liar's dice recently," he nods, playing along perfectly, "She wanted to try betting money on it."

"I'm new at this so please go easy on me," I jump in with a lie designed to make my opponents feel more comfortable. The third man at the table, a dark skinned fellow with an honest looking face, doesn't seem to like the sound of this.

"Gaston Tidmore ain't takin' money from no little girls." he says firmly, and I'm surprised that anyone in Thieves' Landing actually lives by an honor system. I'm so thrown off by this revelation that I can't think of a reply, forcing Jack to take over.

"Patrick MacFarlane is her father," he says smoothly, "Money ain't an object, really."

I can tell that this changes things. Ray Warthington and Lyle already knew who my father was from their various dealings with him and thus had no qualms in taking my money. Gaston Tidmore, it seems, is starting to see things their way.

"I'm warnin' you now, little miss," Ray Warthington begins, already rattling his cup of dice, "This is high stakes. We're bettin' twenty dollars a game."

The clamor of the saloon around us nearly drowns out all thought but my mind is clear and focused as I prepare to play this game. My game. Not even the scathing looks I'm still getting from various prostitutes and bitter criminals can throw me off now.

"All right then, gentlemen." I say, taking a seat at the table, "Looks like we've got ourselves a deal."

* * *

By the end of the hour I've made nearly $240 off of the men, all of whom insisted on a rematch each time I defeated them. I stand up with my winnings to beam at them and all three look too shocked to offer any protest. Behind me Jack finishes another round of blackjack and gets out of his seat.

"Time to go?" he asks me, keeping one eye on the men I'd been playing with. He expects them to cry foul and I understand that line of thought. No man likes losing money to a girl. I nod and give the men a parting wave before turning towards the exit. Jack is right on my heels, one hand kept close to his revolver. He's been acting jumpy like that since the first moment we got to Thieves' Landing despite my assurances that we'd be fine, just fine.

"How much did you make?" I ask him as I rifle through the stack of bills in my hand. He doesn't look at me when he answers; just keeps scanning the area as if we're about to get ambushed.

"A hundred and ten. You?"

"Two hundred and forty."

This catches his attention. He finally meets my gaze, eyes wide mouth gaping. I nearly laugh at his expression but decide that unhitching his horse for him will be a better course of action.

"Why haven't you ever named that thing?" I ask as he begins to climb on said horse's back. Jack looks down at the pure black mass he's sitting on and it neighs apprehensively. The horse is gorgeous, a classic American Standardbred with bright eyes. Jack, however, only sees a regular horse.

"He doesn't need a name, do you horse?" Jack says as if he can speak English. And then, to my surprise, the horse snorts as if it's replying.

"See?" Jack is clearly pleased with this turn of events, "A horse just needs-"

He breaks off abruptly as a shrill and angry scream rips through the cool afternoon air. I spin around, trying to pinpoint the source of the cry, and end up looking at the patch of trees just behind Dr. Gallagher's store/office. I can just make out a misshapen figure running through the shade in a hurry. Behind me, Jack still hasn't seen this and I quickly realize that I don't have time to show him. The figure is far enough away that it will escape if I don't start chasing right at this moment.

"Effie, stop!" Jack calls after me as I run, "God _damn it_, Effie!"

My semi-automatic pistol is in my hand before I know it and I enjoy the feeling of its weight. That Carcano rifle just hadn't been a good match, even after hours of practice, but my own pistol fits like a glove in my grasp, natural-not forced. I speed up, gun held in front of me, and I'm finally able to make out a few details about the figure. First of all, it becomes clear that the runner is a heavy-set male in a gray trench coat. He's got a tied up girl on his shoulder and while she's screaming bloody murder, she's not asking for help.

"_You filthy, yellow-bellied, ugly as shit, creeping manchild_!" she shouts, her dark hair flying out in smooth waves as she struggles to get free, "_I bet your prick's the size of a thimble. FUCKING SON OF A BITCH_!"

I'm amazed at her vernacular, and with good reason. I know a few good curses myself and I'm no stranger to foul-mouthed men, but this girl could outdo all of them. I'm not sure whether I should be impressed or disgusted and I don't really have time to decide. I have to shoot him. If I don't do it now he'll be able to slip under the cover of the thick forest before us.

"_IF YOU DON'T FUCKING DROP ME RIGHT NOW I WILL BITE YOUR COCK OFF YOU-"_

The rest of her sentence is drowned out by the sound of my pistol going off. My aim is just as perfect as I expected it to be, the bullet shooting right through the man's back and, with any luck, his heart. He crumples over in another second, dropping the fuming girl and falling down himself. Once on the ground the girl begins to squirm against her bindings. I'm aware that I should go help her but find that I'm unable to move yet again. This time, though, it's different. I don't feel scared. I don't feel shocked. Instead I feel a sudden burst of calm as I, with my gun still held high, survey the dead body before me. _I actually did it._

Before long I hear the sound of hooves behind me and turn to see Jack riding up on his horse. He eyes me anxiously as he gets closer but, to my surprise, continues past me to the bound girl. He's off his horse and kneeling beside her in less than a minute, a knife already in his hand.

"Hold still so I can cut you free."

To my surprise, the stranger actually obeys him. I move forward as Jack saws through the ropes with a speed that confirms he's had to do this before. Up close I can tell that the girl is a prostitute. Her clothes , a lacy dress that reveals far too much leg and no stockings or petticoat to speak of, prove this. The strange thing is that she doesn't look the same age as whores usually do. I can't see enough of her face to be sure but she really can't be much older than Jack.

"Here," he says as he cuts through the last fiber, "Done."

Without warning, the stranger springs up from the ground and attempts to kiss Jack right on the mouth. Despite his obvious astonishment, he manages to turn his head so she only gets his cheek. I just stand there, too stunned to do anything but stare.

"Oh thank God!" the girl releases Jack and gets up, completely unfazed, "I was beginnin' to think I'd have to off that cocksucker myself!"

Jack is still kneeling down on the dirt path, clearly too shocked to move. I'm suddenly aware that the girl doesn't even seem to realize that I'm here. She's watching Jack with an expression that is much too animated for someone who just nearly got raped. But then again, this must be a normal happening for her.

"You're my hero." she says this in a manner that is far too serious for my liking. I'm suddenly feeling annoyed and a little possessive. This is not something I'm used to.

"Wasn't me," Jack manages to croak out, "She saved you."

He's pointing in my direction and it's obvious when the stranger sees me that she's less than pleased. I guess it's no fun when your hero's actually a heroine.

"Oh." her response is short, quipped, and her voice is cool, "I see. Thank you."

She reaches out to me with a slender hand and I'm disconcerted when I see how beautiful she truly is. Her hair is long and wavy, colored a deep brown that shines perpetually even here in the half-light. Her eyes are a strange purplish-blue that I've never seen on anyone else in my life. In addition to all this she has a figure that I'm sure most men would die to get to know better. She gives me this look as we shake hands, this wicked half-smile, and I instantly feel insecure. Maybe it's a girl thing but I'm thinking that if anyone had to choose between her and me, they'd pick her every time.

"I'm Marianne." she says, dropping my hand as quickly as she can to turn back to Jack, "I was just about to catch a carriage to Armadillo when that pig grabbed me up."

Jack finally stands up, dusting off his pants as he surveys this new girl. My mind races as I consider everything from what he thinks of her to what they'd name their children if they managed to have any. There's no denying it anymore. I'm jealous. He's barely said a word to her and I'm full-on overprotective of this property I don't even own.

"Jack," he introduces himself as he prods the body between us with one foot, probably double-checking to be sure he's really dead, "This is Effie. We can walk you over to the carriages if you want."

"Oh, I'd love if you escorted me," Marianne says brightly. I notice that she'd said 'you' while looking very pointedly at Jack. He nods briefly before turning to me and pushing back my bangs to get a good look at my face. He's checking to make sure I didn't hurt myself in the scuffle, a routine thing for him, and while I know this very well, it's immediately obvious that Marianne does not. I could tell from the first moment I saw her that she's used to having the undivided attention of every man, woman, and child any time she steps into a room. She must be surprised that Jack wasn't immediately queuing up to get with her. There, at least, we're on the same page. I've been at it for years and he still hasn't fallen for me either.

"You hurt anywhere?" he asks me after he finishes his speedy examination. I shake my head no and he seems relieved. And then angry.

"What were you thinking?!" he demands, dropping his hand from my face. I fire up at once, upset that he didn't comment on my obvious success.

"I was thinking that someone might die!"

"You could have at least told me-"

"He would've gotten away, you know-"

"_I was on a god damn horse, I could have_-"

"Um, excuse me…" Marianne interrupts the argument, "I can see that you're in the middle of something but I'd really like to get back to that carriage now."

We both freeze and turn back to her. She seems alarmed and I suspect that it has more to do with our disregarding her than it does with our argument. As I thought, she's not a girl who's used to being ignored.

"R-right, sorry." Jack seems flustered, "Let's go through here."

He gestures in that 'after you' sort of way and follows right behind her, but his eyes are on me. They look furious still and I know he's going to give me hell about this later. I sigh and grab the reins of Jack's unnamed horse, bringing up the rear of our little rescuing party. We walk back towards the saloon and then across the bridge in the middle of town. The entire way I notice how all the men are now looking at us, or more specifically at Marianne. It bothers me, somehow. It's not that I want to be ogled like this everywhere I go, it's just that it'd be nice if people always noticed me. Or at least if Jack noticed me a bit more.

"I was only here to talk to that woman who owns the Dixie Rose. You can sure bet I won't be coming back. The nerve of some people!"

She's talking right at Jack and I have to wonder if a single word is even getting through to him. He has this blank expression on his face but he's nodding politely every time Marianne stops to take a breath. I, on the other hand, only have Jack's horse for company. I really should just name the poor thing myself.

"How much will it be to get to Armadillo?" Marianne asks the stagecoach driver as she nears him. The man gapes a bit when he sees her, his wide mouth hanging open rather unattractively. It must have something to do with the bit of cleavage showing above her corset.

"Well I usually charge around twenty dollars but…" he pauses to look her up and down appreciatively, "I can knock it down to five for you."

I almost throw up right there. Even if there are perks to being that beautiful, I don't want them if I have to put up with men looking at me like a piece of meat. Jack helps her get into the stagecoach and she grabs his hand as he makes to turn away.

"Listen, cowboy," her voice is obviously flirtatious, "If you ever stop by Armadillo, come see me. I'll show you a good time."

Jack lets a sliver of surprise slide through before addressing this with a straight face.

"Thanks, but I'd rather not."

It's clear that Marianne wasn't expecting that answer. She releases Jack's hand and he closes the door between them. Unsurprisingly, the disappointed look on her face makes me feel a little better.

"Think about it. You might feel differently in a week or two."

We wave goodbye as the stagecoach departs, and I can't say I'm sad to see her go. This is the first time I've ever considered that someone else might be interested in Jack. We never hung around girls our age enough for it to be an issue.

"That was strange." he says, taking his horse from me. I smile widely as we head back for the saloon where my horse is still hitched.

"You sure you don't want to take her up on that offer?"

"Please." Jack is smiling too, now, "My ma would turn in her grave."

This is the first time he's spoken so easily about his mother's death. He's kidding, I know that. And even though I'm happy to hear it I can't bring myself to laugh.

"Let's just get back home." I say instead.

"You're the boss." he says softly, clearly a joke. I'm as far from being the leader here as he is from forgetting about his losses. Both of these things suck but we just have to live with them.

It's a little later than we originally planned on when we finally leave, but that's okay. I'm too busy worrying about other, more pressing matters. According to our original plans we only have half a month left before we depart from the ranch and start living our lives outside the law. When we do that I'm guessing there will be a lot more flirtatious women for Jack to deal with and a lot more of me being jealous. I hate being jealous.

I've suddenly realized that the world is much bigger than me and Jack and the ranch we call home. And I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.


	6. The Hard Part

**A/N-First I'd like to mention that this chapter is actually my longest so far and was the hardest to write so I don't know how well it came out. I know things have been a bit slow for the past two chapters but chapter seven is when they'll start picking up so look out for that :) McLean7, thank you and I'm glad you liked her. shyanide216, here is more XD and Scribblez09, thank you so much for that beautiful review and I'll be waiting for your next update too! Reviews are what I live on, please tell me if I'm doing good or if I can improve somewhere.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

The Hard Part:

"Loosen up a bit, Effie," John Marston advises, his hand on my shoulder, "If your back's too straight the gun will jump more."

I try to comply with the order but his scrutiny is making me nervous. At least I'm doing better than Jack, though. He's refusing to shoot with anything other than his dad's Springfield rifle despite a lack of practice with the gun. So far he's only hit two glass bottles versus my seven.

"You really should start with a repeater, son." Mr. Marston remarks when he notices the issue. Jack shoots another round, missing the bottles yet again and hitting the barn door instead. I hear a cow mooing in fear inside.

"I'm fine. I can do this on my own!" Jack snaps, raising the rifle once again.

I roll my eyes at this, and Jack's father just sighs and turns back to me. That sort of behavior is pretty commonplace for Jack nowadays. A while back he told me that he has a feeling his father will be leaving again eventually as he always does, and so it was best not to get too close to him. That seems a bit farfetched to me. Mr. Marston promised that his gunslinging days are over so that's what I believe.

"I don't like this gun." I tell him, gesturing at the Schofield revolver I'd been using, "It's a little slow."

The elder Marston chuckles lightly and musses up my hair. I know that he's only treating me this way, like a daughter, because he's at odds with his own son. I know this and yet I can't stop myself from feeling overwhelmingly happy.

"Try this one," he pulls a much thinner gun out of its holster, "I don't use it much but it might be what you're lookin' for."

I take the gleaming weapon from him and examine it. I've never seen a pistol like this one before, but then again I'm not very well-versed in gun variety.

"What is it?"

"I think it's called a semi-auto pistol. It was Dutch's but then…you know."

This shocks me, and even Jack stops cold-shouldering his dad to address this new revelation.

"You got Uncle Dutch's gun?"

I glance over at him and I'm not surprised to see that he's wide-eyed and looks much younger than his sixteen years. He tries to act like he doesn't care, but I know he misses his father's old friends. He grew up with them after all.

"He dropped it, and I took it. Was feelin' a bit sentimental."

Mr. Marston won't discuss this with us, I can already tell. He's always held back from telling us exactly how each of his friends died. What he's not aware of, though, is that Jack and I already know about Escuella and Bill Williamson. We'd scrounged up some old newspapers during a trip to Armadillo and, surprise to end all surprises, both their deaths were front page material. Dutch van der Linde, however, remains a mystery to us.

Within the hour, Jack and I grow bored of shooting at inanimate objects. Mr. Marston tells us both that he's proud of our improvement and heads for the house to see what his wife's been working on for dinner.

"It's probably poisoned," Jack mumbles when we're alone and I laugh.

"Don't let your mother catch you sayin' that."

He lets out a muffled 'hmmph' and crosses his arms over his chest. We head for the barn, him with that rifle, me with my new pistol in its holster, and I wonder what we must look like to other people. Two kids who are too young to be messing around with artillery, is what I'm thinking. Although I have a bad habit of seeing Jack as younger than he really is.

"How do you do it?" he asks suddenly when we reach the barn doors.

"What?" I say, baffled.

"You just do everythin' right. How is that?"

If it was anyone else saying these things, I'd think they were jealous of me. But this is Jack. This is how he gives compliments.

"Practice," I admit, remembering all the time I'd spent in Blackwater at finishing school and at MacFarlane's Ranch with a gun in my hands, "Years and years of practice."

Jack considers this as we climb the ladder up to the loft. There are two piles of books stacked on one of the boxes up here, books we have read and books we have yet to read. The latter pile is, unfortunately, much smaller than the former.

"We're running out." I observe. Jack comes to stand behind me but I can tell his mind is elsewhere.

"Maybe I should've had more practice, then." he muses, still fixated on the topic, "I could be more like you."

"It was a waste of my time. I should've been here with you."

I say this quickly, not wanting to admit the true weight of the words. Jack is blushing when I meet his gaze and I soon feel my face heating up as well.

"Yeah. That would've been better." he agrees.

We sit down then, each picking up a book from the shorter stack and beginning to read. This is our evening ritual and we stick to it religiously. I find that I feel at peace for the first time in a long time and I don't want this moment to end. But just as I think this, it's over.

It was a dream-of course it was a dream-and when I wake up I'm crying.

* * *

"You look like hell." Jack says bluntly as I approach the kitchen. He's standing over the table by the wall and chewing on what looks like beef jerky. A map of the Tall Trees and Hennigan's Stead counties is spread over the table top, a part of the river between them circled in pen.

"Thanks. Girls just love hearing that."

I'm sleep deprived and I'd cried for almost fifteen minutes when I woke up an hour ago, so it's no surprise that I'm very short with Jack when I speak. After all, it's no fun reliving memories of your best days in your dreams when they're something you can never get back to.

"Sorry. I just meant you seem tired is all," Jack quickly backtracks. Most days he has this useful ability to predict which words and phrases will set me off and he stops himself from saying them. I guess today isn't one of those days.

"I am. What's that?"

I'm pointing at the map now, or more specifically at what he's drawn on the map. It circles around the words Montana Ford, a name I've never seen before.

"That's where we'll cross with the cattle," Jack explains, watching me as if I might lash out again at any second, "You do remember we're deliverin' them today, right?"

Right. Of course. Today is going to be the most difficult day of my life. As if delivering a herd of cattle to my aunt's farm isn't bad enough, I'm also going to have to explain to her and my grandfather exactly why I'm leaving them with a bunch of cows and heading off into the sunset with Jack Marston.

"Then let's go already."

I'm halfway to the backdoor when Jack grabs my elbow.

"Hold on, you haven't even eaten!"

I stare at him, waiting for him to let go, but he doesn't. He seriously expects me to stop and eat something. For whatever reason, I choose this moment to burst into tears.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Effie, what's wrong?"

I sink to the floor and try to stifle the waterfall that's now flowing from my eyes, but it's useless. It's just that I'm so damn tired of this. All of it. Missing his parents, Jack's distance from me, my distance from my own family, even the idea of being a bounty hunter.

"I'm f-fine!" I squeak out. My voice gets higher when I'm nervous or upset.

"No, you're not." he kneels over me, "Talk to me."

I swallow my sobs long enough to try and clarify my emotional outburst.

"W-what am I going to tell them?! How can I explain that I w-want to be a bounty hunter?! _Me_. City g-girl, Effie!"

Jack leans back on his heels and grins. This almost confuses me enough to stop my tears. Almost, but not quite.

"Is that it?" he asks me.

"_It's a big deal_!" I shriek, scaring him. He rallies quickly though.

"Look, we'll figure that part out. I'll be there with you, it's fine!"

I nod when I hear this, but there's no end to my crying.

"Here, just eat this," he waves a stick of beef jerky in front of my face, "And then-"

He breaks off abruptly as someone knocks on the front door. Jack shoves the jerky into my hand before standing up to go greet the stranger as I, on the other hand, stay seated on the floor and try to focus on the food item that is now in my grasp. My sobbing has gone nearly silent and that helps somewhat. I hear the sound of a door being opened from across the house.

"Oh! Hello." Jack seems to be surprised. I crane my neck, trying to get a good view of the person standing outside.

"Jack Marston?" a gentle voice inquires, "Um, I don't know if you remember me but-"

She's forced to stop in the middle of her sentence when I rush at her and nearly tackle her to the ground in an unforgiving embrace. My problems are pretty much the last thing on my mind as I nearly squeeze her to death.

"Collette!" I squeal, releasing her when she begins to struggle for breath, "What are you doing here?"

The redheaded newcomer before me is Collette Miller, my oldest friend. A soft-spoken, pretty girl from a high-class family, she's exactly what you'd expect that type of lady to be. Except she's unbelievably nice.

"Well I was actually headed to Hennigan's Stead but I made the carriage driver stop here. I thought I recognized your horse."

She's looking towards the cow pen now where War is hitched. I guess Jack had gotten up early to prepare things for our ride out.

"It's been a while," he says now, shaking her hand. She blushes lightly, embarrassed, something she does easily and often.

"It has. You look better than you did."

Jack looks confused and Collette flushes even redder.

"I meant to say that you seem happier. I'm so sorry I-," she pauses, meeting my gaze, "Effie have you been crying?"

I blink a couple times and wipe my face as well as I can. I've just realized that now, because Collette is here, I'll have to explain what we're planning to do twice.

"I'll tell you about it later," I decide, "And not that I'm not happy to see you but what are you doin' here?"

Here, Collette smiles brightly. She sticks out her hand to show off a gorgeous golden ring, encrusted with a multitude of decently sized diamonds. My hands fly to my mouth to cover up a gasp I hadn't realized I'd let out.

"You're engaged! Is it James?!"

She nods and I let out another high pitched squeal, so happy for her. Beside me, Jack fidgets uncomfortably. He's never been very good at dealing with overexcited girls.

"Congratulations," he says then, "I just gotta take care of a few things before we head out, so…"

He trails off and pats Collette on the shoulder before disappearing out the front door. My friend seems puzzled by this behavior, but it makes perfect sense to me.

"He's uncomfortable with happy things," I shrug, taking her hand to lead her inside, "Anyway, you have to tell me what happened. All of it."

We sit down on the couch and Collette begins her tale of courtship, moving her hands around elatedly as she speaks. Apparently James, another old friend of ours, had sent her a bouquet of azaleas every day for the past month until she'd agreed to hear out his intentions. I'm very excited for her, especially because I know James will always put her first. He's been smitten with her since our first year of school.

"…it was all so sudden but it just felt right." she's beaming by the time she finishes, "But what about you? You still haven't told me why you were crying and now Jack says you're heading somewhere?"

I decide to avoid the first part of her statement again for the present.

"We're actually takin' the herd over to Hennigan's Stead today."

"To your grandfather's ranch? Why?"

Great. I really can't escape from this topic much longer.

"If you come along with us, I'll tell you all about it." I suggest. If Collette's with us, there's a good chance my aunt will go easier on me. I hope.

"That would be fine, I meant to invite your family to the wedding anyway."

We meet Jack out near the cows and he seems relieved to find that the two of us are neither crying nor squealing. He's happy enough to have Collette join us on the ride over but he pulls me aside when she goes to pay the carriage driver who was waiting for her.

"Can she ride a horse all the way to Hennigan's Stead in that dress?" he asks me. I, who am wearing women's trousers for the occasion, nod.

"She can ride with me. Sidesaddle is easy enough if you've got someone to hold on to."

I watch Collette as she speaks to the driver, all kindness and propriety. I doubt the carriage driver will ever get a bigger tip than he's getting now. Inwardly, I've always thought Collette was too fragile for this world and I'm glad James is going to marry her. He'll make sure she's safe.

"So she's gettin' married, huh?" Jack breaks through my silence.

"Yes and he's as good a man as they come." I say happily. Jack is looking at Collette too, now. The carriage is turning back towards Blackwater and Collette is waving at the driver as he goes.

"I'm glad." he says.

"Do you ever think it'll be you?" I hedge, wondering if he's ever considered me. If I'm being honest with myself he's the only one I've ever even come close to considering.

"Gettin' married?" he inquires and I say yes, "I used to. Now I get the feeling I don't deserve it."

I open my mouth to retort when Collette appears beside me, grasping at my arm.

"When do you think we'll be going?" she says in that polite tone she uses around most men. Finishing school has taught her well. I look at Jack, still fretting over what he'd just told me, and I'm surprised to find that he's looking at me too.

"We could leave now?" Jack directs the question at me, "Get this all over with."

I respond with a noncommittal jerk of my head. As much as I want to see my family again (minus my father, of course), I'm not so sure they'll want to see me after I tell them my plans. They might even try to stop me and that will probably lead to the end of us communicating for a very long time.

Within the next half-hour our horses are unhitched and the cows are released from their pen. Jack tells me to lead the herd towards Montana Ford while he keeps them moving from behind. I remember a time when Jack could barely keep up with the cows and now he's better with them than I am. How things have changed.

"So how are things with you and Jack?" Collette asks me as we set out, her arms tight around my middle. She knows how to ride a horse well enough but she's never been very comfortable doing it.

"Good, I think." I say, whipping the reins so War will pick up speed, "He's not as angry as he once was."

"I wonder why that is…" Collette trails off, and I get a feeling that I know what she's hinting at. She's been onto me about being honest with myself for years and, if I'm feeling really brave, with Jack as well.

"He doesn't love me, Collette," I say firmly for what feels like the hundredth time, "Maybe he did once but it's different now."

Collette is silent for a moment and I can focus better on where we're going. The trees are getting a bit thicker as we near the Pacific Union Railroad Camp. Somewhere ahead is the river.

"Maybe." Collette starts again when I can hear the sound of a rushing stream, "Or maybe you don't understand him as well as you think you do."

This strikes me as so silly that I choose not to dignify it with an answer. Instead I wave at Jack to signal that I'm going to cross the river. I can detect him nodding from a distance, telling me to go ahead. War splashes through the seasonally shallow stream happily enough, which is no surprise as he's always been fond of water.

"Are you going to tell me why you're taking all these cows to your aunt?" Collette pipes up again as we enter Hennigan's Stead.

I deliberate, wondering how I can break the news in the sanest sounding way.

"Jack and I are leavin' the farm." I blurt out.

"Really?" she sounds happy, "Does that mean you'll come back to Blackwater? I'd love if you helped me plan the wedding-you_ are_ going to be my maid of honor, right?"

"Of course!" I assure her, "But I'm not goin' to Blackwater. Or anywhere else, really."

"What do you mean?" she says forebodingly. There's a warning in her voice that tells me not to try lying to her.

"We're going to do what his father did."

At this I feel Collette's perfectly filed nails digging into my waist. I let out a little squeak, causing a cow that was following too closely to jump back.

"NO! Effie are you _insane_?!" she demands loudly enough for Jack to hear. This doesn't bother me though, as I'm sure he knew that taking Collette along would mean telling her the truth.

"This is what I want to do." I say unwaveringly.

"Get arrested? Ruin your life? That's what you want to do?!"

"It's not illegal to hunt bounties, Collette. People do it all the time."

"_Men _do it all the time. Women never do."

I huff angrily as the barn of my family's ranch looms in the distance. If I don't explain this quickly in a way that she'll accept, I'll have to deal with her anger and my aunt's at the same time. That doesn't bode well for any of us.

"Jack's my best friend," I say at last, "He's the man that I love. If I let him do this on his own, he'll die."

The words roll off my tongue without my permission. I don't know when I decided to be so bluntly honest.

"But what about you?" Collette sounds close to tears, "You could die too!"

We're on the bridge into town now. We have to head all the way through to the other side before we're even near the cow pen, so I've got a bit of time. Almost everyone we pass by waves at me rather joyously. It really has been a long while since I last saw all of them.

"I won't die. And I won't change my mind either, Collette."

The finality in my tone is hard to argue with. Collette is not my mother or my aunt; she can't really do anything to stop me. All she can do is tighten her grip around my waist. It's a hug more than anything else.

"Lead them in!" Jack calls out from behind the herd. Two farmhands open the cow pen gates for us as we get closer. I recognize the one on the left, Amos, by his impressively bushy mustache.

Once all fifteen cows are safely inside the pen, Collette and I dismount my horse and I hand the reins over to Amos. He takes them from me and pats my cheek affectionately.

"It's been downright depressin' without you around, little Miss." he says kindly, and I smile. There's something about being in a place where everyone knows you that makes you happy without knowing why. The other worker, who I don't think I've met before, takes Jack's horse from him. Amos greets Jack then with a hearty handshake.

"You look just like your old man, Marston," he seems happy about this, "I'm sure he'd be proud to see you now."

"Thanks." Jack says shortly. After all this time, he still doesn't like reminders of his father. Even worse, I know he believes that his father wouldn't be proud of him at all.

We're on my aunt's doorstep within the next five minutes, wiping off our boots (or shoes, in Collette's case) on the welcome mat. I really missed this place. I hope my aunt didn't enter my room and move everything around during her spring cleaning. I know her. The more bored she gets, the more she cleans. I knock on the door with Collette practically glued to my side and Jack standing back, leaning against one of the columns that supports the balcony. The door swings open almost immediately and before I can even say hello, I'm swept up into the arms of Bonnie MacFarlane. She squeezes me nearly half to death when a gruff voice sounds out from behind her.

"Now, now, Bonnie. Let the girl breathe a little." Grandpa Drew puts a hand on his daughter's shoulder. My aunt releases me and holds me at arm's length, examining my face.

"Oh darlin', how I've missed you!" she exclaims before hugging me yet again. It hurts when she says this because I know that she'll be missing me a lot more than she has been once Jack and I leave.

"C'mere," my grandfather says, pulling me towards him, "Let me get a good look at you."

He eyes me just as carefully as Aunt Bonnie had and she takes the time to greet Jack and Collette and invite them inside. I suppose he likes what he sees because he breaks into a wide smile.

"You look good." he comments then.

"And you look like you could outrun my horse," I reply with a grin. There's never a day that I don't thank God for my grandfather's boundless health.

"I always look like that."

We're seated around the coffee table mere minutes later as my aunt serves a round of sweet ice tea. On my right, Collette chatters on excitedly about her plans for the wedding. Aunt Bonnie had been rightly impressed by the ring on my friend's finger and seems genuinely interested in how this all came about. My grandfather, on the other hand, is clearly indifferent. Jack leans back against the couch on my left side, his face impassive. If I had to guess, I'd say he's wondering if Drew MacFarlane will shoot him once we tell him what we're up to.

"So…" Grandpa Drew breaks in when Collette pauses to take a breath, "About that telegram. Jack Marston, I can't deny that I'm grateful to get fifteen free cows on my ranch, but I need to know why."

Jack turns to meet his gaze and I detect, for the first time, a look of fear flash across his face. It's gone as quickly as it came.

"I'll be honest with you, sir. I'm plannin' on leaving my father's ranch for a long stretch of time. Months at least."

Collette gives me a sideways glance and I do my best to ignore her. She's upset that I hadn't told her my trip would take so long.

"I can't imagine Effie bein' okay with this," my aunt chips in.

They're all looking at me now, expecting me to explain my part in all this. I'm not ready. When they see this they go back to questioning Jack.

"I don't mean to pry, boy, but do you mind tellin' me where you're goin'?" my grandfather presses on. My aunt sips on her ice tea nonchalantly but it's obvious that she's all ears. At this point, I can tell that Jack is going to do this on his own. He thinks it'll be easier for me, that less of my family's anger will be directed at me if he does the talking and he's probably right. But I can't let him do this.

"Wait." I hold up my hand, "This is on me. It was my idea."

So I tell them. I tell them that Jack went after Edgar Ross and killed him, irreversibly altering the course of his life. I explain how I got him to come back home with me and what I'd suggested we do from then on. As I speak, my aunt's expression changes from shock to anger bit by bit, like day turning into night. My grandfather keeps all emotion from showing on his face entirely and this frightens me even more than my Aunt Bonnie's obvious rage.

"A _bounty hunter._" she says incredulously, "That's what you wanna be?"

"That's only part of it," I amend as quickly as I can, "I wanna help people, Aunt Bonnie!"

"Then go to school, get a degree in doctoring' or somethin'! That's what that Elizabeth girl from down in Armadillo is doin'!"

"You know that's not me, I can't do that job!"

"Oh but you're fine with gettin' yourself shot, is that it?"

"I won't get shot! I've practiced this-"

"This is because of him, isn't it?!" she demands, pointing vindictively at Jack. He leans back, quite obviously fearing for his life, and I don't blame him.

"_It's not his fault-_"

"Stop it." my grandfather cuts us both off, his tone even and strong, "Both of you. Stop actin' like children."

"She _is_ a child, she's only sixteen!" my aunt bursts out. This seems rather unfair to me considering that she'd sent me a letter a few weeks ago telling me that I would be settling down and starting a family soon enough.

"Collette's seventeen and she's gettin' married." I point out. My friend narrows her eyes at me from her corner of the sofa, annoyed that I'd brought her into our dispute.

"She's clearly more mature than y-"

"Bonnie!" Grandpa Drew snaps, finally irritated, "Lay off, please."

This is enough of a command to make my aunt stop talking but she continues to glower at Jack with a fury that scares me to no end. My grandfather is now massaging his temple with one tired hand. He won't look at me.

"I think…" he begins slowly, "I think we all need to cool down a spell. Then we can face this with our heads screwed on straight. Does that sound good to everybody?"

Jack and I nod in agreement while Collette tries to make herself as small as possible in her corner. My aunt is still glaring unrelentingly.

"Good. Kids, why don't you head upstairs and rest up some? Bonnie, you come with me to check on the new cows. We need to talk."

Aunt Bonnie springs out of her seat and storms out the front door without looking back at me even once. That hurts me. I knew that she wouldn't be happy about my decision but I never expected she'd be this angry. She's never treated me like this before. My grandfather gives me an apologetic look before standing up to follow his daughter outside. I'm simultaneously surprised and relieved that he doesn't seem mad.

"Effie, come on." Collette calls from in front of the stairs. She and Jack had jumped up and ran there the moment Grandpa Drew suggested it. I get off the sofa, my legs feelings strangely heavy when I move them, and go to them. Jack puts an arm around my shoulders and Collette takes my hand, and the lead, as we head upstairs. They, at least, know how I feel.

* * *

"She'll come around, she loves you." Jack assures me. I'm sitting on my bed, back in my old bedroom. The walls are painted a powder blue that matches my bed sheets, curtains and everything else. In short, walking into my room at MacFarlane's ranch is like walking into an explosion of my favorite color. Jack is seated in the chair in front of my desk, trying to get me to 'cheer up' as Collette put it. She's actually in the bathroom right now, powdering her nose or some other such nonsense.

"I've never seen her that angry." I say monotonously. I feel like I've repeated that same line almost fifteen times already but I just don't know what else to tell him. Jack's seemed a bit strange since we entered my room anyway, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression pensive. Even his attempts to convince me are half-hearted

"We don't have to do this, you know."

I smooth my hands over the blue bed sheets, the pillow, just looking for something to do.

"Of course we had to tell them. You don't think they'd be curious when I went missing for all that time?"

Jack takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair and this catches my attention. He only does that when he's the bringer of bad news.

"No I mean we don't have to go. I can just stay at Beecher's Hope and you can keep goin' back and forth like you usually do," he proposes, making it all sound so simple, "They won't be mad at you. You'll be safe."

I can't believe he's even suggesting this. Over these past few weeks I'd watch Jack change from a bitter and angry killer back into the mildly irritated friend I was used to. I'm convinced that it's because of the future he can now see in front of him. I can't take that away, I'm scared of what will happen if I do.

"That's not an option," my confidence is unshakable as I say this, "I'm old enough to choose what I want to do with my life. Next year at this time, most of my old friends are going to be married and settling down. I don't want that. This is what I want."

Jack puts his hat back on but doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. I can see a million questions in the air between us, questions that neither of us want to say out loud or answer. In a perfect world, he'd be open enough to ask me why I'd willingly choose to stay with him. If I was brave enough, I'd tell him I loved him and inquire as to whether he loved me back or not. Unfortunately, this is not a perfect world. Maybe I can still be brave, though. I owe him that much. It's with that feeling in my heart that I open my mouth to tell him the secret I thought I'd carry with me to the grave.

"Jack, I-"

"Effie!" my grandfather's voice rings out from downstairs, "Would you get down here, please?"

He still doesn't sound angry, and that bodes well for us. By this point I'm certain that Collette is less powdering her nose in the bathroom and more hiding out in there. She hates confrontations. Jack gets up and lets out a quiet sigh.

"Let's go," he holds his hand out to me and I take it, feeling better already. His words are somehow calming and I repeat them to myself as he pulls me up.

"Let's go."


	7. That Which Matters Most

**A/N- I'll be honest with you, this is the shortest chapter I've written yet. That length was necessary because I had to cut off the chapter right there or it would lose its impact DX sorry! also, I decided I'd do this thing called chapter tracks where I'll put a song title that I think relates to the story in some way in every chapter. If that's a bad idea, please tell me :( I'm new to this. and thanks again to my reviewers, ArkhamQueen, your advice is spot on. Scribblez09 I value your support so much, seriously. And thank you Kailee :) anyway, without further ado here is chapter 7.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Track: Ho Hey-The Lumineers

That Which Matters Most:

The chickens squawk uncomfortably as I try to shoo them into their cages, leaving me wondering if anything is worth this much hassle. As much as I want to own a ranch when I'm settled down I'm not sure it would be a good fit. What kind of rancher can't get ten chickens into a bunch of cages?

"God damn it," I curse under my breath, prodding one of the more boisterous hens into a cage on the far left. As soon as the words leave my mouth I guiltily check my surroundings. Each time Jack catches me cursing I owe him a buck and he's gotten nearly fifteen dollars from me in just the past week.

I'm eventually able to lock the chicken in her iron cell and turn back to the three who have managed to remain free thus far. Two of them have clearly gone crazy, hopping around the barn and squawking their hearts out with puffed up wings. The third, however, is completely and surprisingly still. I think longingly of Rufus (we'd sent him to stay with Seth Briars just a few days ago) who could've had them caged up in mere minutes. The cows are gone, though, and that's something.

I think back to when we'd delivered the cattle to my family's ranch, the furious look on my aunt's face as she'd berated me for what I wanted to do with my future. To my surprise, she'd eventually given in due to some magic my grandfather had worked upon her. My only wish had been that our parting wouldn't cause her pain. I don't think that wish ended up coming true.

* * *

"I know what you can do, Effie. I've seen it." my grandfather says evenly, "You ain't a little girl anymore and if this is what you want, I've got no right tryin' to talk you out of it."

I stay silent in my seat across from him at the dining table, my head bowed. Collette is presumably still hiding upstairs and my aunt is on the other side of the house, chewing Jack out for what she believes is his fault.

"I trust the Marston boy. I know he'll protect you better than thick walls and those Blackwater lawmen ever could. And your aunt…she'll come around. She's just scared."

I can hear Jack's voice now, trying to talk my aunt down from her rage as calmly as he can. He's never been very good at dealing with emotional women, though, so I can't imagine it's going well.

"Right now I think she's just scarin' Jack." I point out. Grandpa Drew chuckles and reaches across the table to take my hand in his. It's large and calloused but holding it soothes me.

"Darlin', are you sure this is what you want?" he asks me and I detect a note of worry in his tone for the first time, "It won't be easy, if that's what you've been thinkin'."

"I know that. I love Collette but I'm not interested in livin' a life like hers."

My grandfather is smiling still as he withdraws his hand from mine and leans back in his chair.

"I always knew you'd want different things, Effie," he admits, "That's why I gave you that horse; why your aunt trained you with that repeater. We knew you'd want options."

This actually explains a lot. Grandpa Drew then assures me that neither he nor my aunt will breathe a word of this to my father, who'd be sure to send a posse of lawmen after me at a moment's notice. Jack, Collette, and I are all set to leave soon after, refusing my grandfather's offers of a late dinner with the excuse that my redheaded friend would miss the last train to Blackwater if we loitered any longer.

"Don't be strangers, you hear?" he says when we're standing in the doorway. As Jack and Collette assure him that they'd do no such thing, I turn to my aunt. Her face is still set in a scowl but something has changed. With a pang I realize that she has unshed tears in her eyes.

"Aunt Bonnie, I-"

She stops me in the middle of my apology by grabbing me close and holding me the way I imagine a mother would hold her departing soldier son. Maybe that comparison isn't too far off, though. I'm leaving today to bring justice to New Austin as well as I can.

"I'm furious with you, Effie," she whispers in my ear, "But don't ever think that I don't love you. Don't you dare."

I'm close to crying myself after she says this. I sniffle a bit and put my arms around her too, promising her that I'll be fine. When she lets me go and says her goodbyes, I can tell that she's doing it with a lighter heart.

At the train station my parting with Collette is nearly the complete opposite of what I'd experienced with my aunt. She sobs openly and tells me over and over again that I have to stay alive for her wedding day. The train begins to move as soon as she's on it and I continue to wave at her long after she's gone. I then go back through the station to the other side where Jack is leaning against a fence by our horses, waiting for me. Despite his trouble earlier with my hysterical aunt, he seems quite happy.

"Ready to go?" he asks me, straightening up.

"Sure am."

"Alright then. Let's try and get home before dark."

I nod at this and hoist myself on top of War. This horse and my two favorite guns are the only things I'll be able to take with me from now on. I pray to God that they're enough.

* * *

By the time I'm down to caging the last hen it's started raining outside, thick and heavy like you wouldn't believe. It's this kind of sudden rain that would usually put a damper on my plans, but not today. Today Jack and I will sell these chickens and the wagon we're transporting them in to the shopkeeper at Manzanita Post. Today we'll leave Beecher's Hope, and probably West Elizabeth, for good.

Jack and I said our goodbyes to his parents when the rainclouds had just started to roll in. We'd left flowers on their graves, violet snowdrops for his mother and wild feverfew for his father. On Uncle's burial mound we'd placed a single bottle of whiskey because, as Jack said, he'd be livid if he knew we'd only left him some pointless plants. It made me happy to think that Uncle was living up to his reputation even in death.

The last chicken is looking at me quite calmly, something that surprises me at this point. So far she's the only one who hasn't put up any sort of fight. I kneel in front of her as carefully as I can because I still expect her to run, but she doesn't. Her beady little eyes stare into mine and I start to feel as if we've formed some sort of comradery during the time I spent chasing after her annoying sisters. She alone understands that fighting the inevitable will only tire both of us out.

By now I'm certain that I've gone insane. I'm considering this chicken as an ally of sorts, and if that isn't crazy I don't know what is. I let out a deep sigh and pick her up, cradling her slightly before placing her in the last empty cage. She doesn't protest the movement at all and the final lock slips into place with a heavenly clang. I thought I'd be hunting these chickens down for the rest of my days.

"Did you get all of 'em?" Jack appears in the doorway to the barn, soaking wet. He takes his hat off as he comes inside, shaking it in hopes of drying it somewhat. It doesn't work too well.

"All ten of them." I gesture towards the cages around me, "Are you sure it's a good idea to move them in this weather?"

"It'll be fine. I'll just throw a tarp over the wagon and we're good to go."

Jack moves over to where I am on the dirt floor and kneels beside me. My comrade now turns her unblinking gaze on him, looking for the first sign of danger. If only she knew how many chickens Jack has eaten in his lifetime.

"Did you deal with the house?" I ask him.

"I boarded up the windows and locked all the doors. Nobody's gettin' in there without a cannon."

"And our bags?"

We'd had to go light on the luggage, considering that we'd be travelling most of the time. I'd packed our clothes and camping gear into waterproof sacks and attached them to our horses backs the night before, but our satchels were still inside last time I checked.

"On the porch." he replies, wringing out the red scarf I'd given him more than a month ago. He's taken to wearing the thing around his neck every day, something that positively elates me. His eyes wander up to the loft above us, to the words he'd carved into the roof back when we were kids. _Oh my son, my blessed son_.

"I really liked that book," he comments, referring to the novel from whence the line originated, "It's real strange but I can't even remember what it was called."

I don't say anything to this because I know exactly why Jack has forgotten that book. He'd been reading it only a week before his father was shot and I'm guessing the thing became too painful to hold on to. He's blocked it out like so much else from that time period.

Jack drops his hat on the floor and shakes out his hair, splattering me with rainwater. I yelp and punch him on the shoulder but he doesn't even feel it.

"Consider that payback for makin' me suffer through your aunt's sermon," he laughs, standing up, "You can wear my pa's hat for now. It'll keep the rain out of your eyes."

I pick up the relic gingerly, almost reverently. I place it on my unruly hair while Jack gathers up two iron cages, leaving the barn to carry them, and the chickens in them, to the wagon outside. It now occurs to me that I'm standing in Mr. Marston's barn with his hat on my head and wearing his wife's old riding clothes. Barely any part of me is my own.

Together, Jack and I move the chickens onto the wagon and under a tarp he'd found in a corner of the barn. By the time I've made my third round there's only one chicken left. My silent comrade. I lift her cage as gently as I can and go back outside. The rain hasn't let up at all, but I'm past caring. I'm already soaked through to the bone. Jack and I have to change as soon as we stop for the day or there's a good chance we'll get pneumonia.

The wagon is parked beside the house with War and Jack's unnamed horse hitched to its front. The two of them don't seem to be happy about this situation, but that's no surprise considering that they've never been wagon horses before. The chickens are clucking like mad under the beige tarp, probably a response to the unrelenting rain falling overhead.

Jack is on the porch holding two satchels, one of which I recognize as mine. He walks over to the wagon and pushes them both under the tarp but on top of the chicken cages. As I watch him I'm struck with the same feeling I'd had when we'd been alone together in my room at my aunt's house. He'd been worried about me. I was only seconds away from confessing to him when life had interrupted us in the form of my grandfather's voice. When it came to doing important things, I'd always convinced myself that there'd be more time. More time to tell Jack's parents how much they mattered to me. More time to form a relationship with my father that actually amounted to something. In the end, all that time I thought I had just slipped away.

I don't want Jack to slip away. Even if I let everything else go just to hold onto him, I think I'll have made the right choice. I don't know how I know this, or why it seems so pertinent that I tell it to him now. But I have to.

We never know how much time we'll have.

"Jack."

He turns around to face me, a drop of rain sliding down his nose, clothes clinging to his skin. He gave me his hat. He was willing to give up his life to stay on this farm _for me_. If he doesn't feel something for me then I have no idea what love looks like.

"Yeah?"

And then the words are there, rolling off my tongue like they should've been allowed to years ago. I have this feeling like my heart is beating too fast, _too fast_, and I can hardly breathe. I almost believe I'm going to die before I can get the words out.

"I love you."

The three syllables are so easy to say, so true, that it amazes me I wasn't able to say them before. Across from me Jack is motionless, his face frozen. I'm aware of how stupid I appear standing here, hair plastered to my face and my shoulders, holding this cage with this bizarrely quiet chicken inside it and telling him the most important thing I've ever said. The way I look matches the way I feel. But I can't stop it. Not this time.

"I'm _in _love with you." I press on, hoping for some reaction, "I was thirteen years old and running away when I ran into you. I found myself when I met you, Jack."

Thunder rolls above our heads, nearly drowning out all thought with its volume. The rain is so thick I can barely see Jack through it. He's shaking by this point, the shudders obvious to me even at this distance. One look at his face tells me to shut up quick. He's angrier than I've ever seen him, angrier than I ever imagined he could be.

"Don't. Do. This." his voice is harsh, terrifying. Each word he says sounds forced out like he'd rather never speak again. Inwardly, I know I'd like nothing better than to take back what I'd said and pretend it never happened. For some reason though, I can't do it.

"It's not your decision to make."

I don't sound nearly as petrifying as he does and I doubt I ever will, but this is one fight I can't afford to lose. Jack's expression changes momentarily, a look of pain crossing his face, before he covers it up again.

"Effie, please-" he breaks off suddenly, sucking in a sharp breath, "Fuck. I can't do this with you, okay? I can't handle this. Just get on the damn wagon."

This request was the last thing I'd expected. Even when I knew he was angry with me I was hoping for a fight, anything that would show me he felt _something_ about my revelation. This is him shutting down, shutting me out. I'd watched him do it when his father died and I couldn't stop it then. It's been three years and I still don't know how to stop it.

I walk forward as if in a daze, shoving the last caged chicken under the tarp with its brethren. Jack is quiet, his expression vacant as he takes his position in the driver's seat. I don't look at him when I sit beside him, I can barely sift through my own thoughts. Without a word I take his father's hat off my head and place it on his lap. I'm not sure why but it feels wrong to wear it now.

"No, it's better if you keep it on." he says. I don't answer. I know I must look so childish, like I'm cold-shouldering him, but this is something else. It feels like someone shut off a switch somewhere inside of me. Talking is the last thing on my mind now.

With a sigh Jack puts the hat back on his own head. As he whips the reins, spurring our horses forward, I force myself to think about something else. I take inventory of our things in my mind. Baggage is a check, bigger guns are stuffed in between the clothing sacks on our horses' backs, smaller guns in holsters at our hips, and ten chickens packed into the back of the wagon. We're all set to go.

I'm not so sure I want to go anymore.


	8. To Help an Old Friend

**A/N-Hi everyone! I am so sorry this chapter took so long but I had things to take care of this week before I started school again. Tbh, I'll probably be updating only once a week when school starts and I'm sorry about that but it's my senior year ;-; the hardest one. Anyway this chapter and the next are sort of fillers between the next part of the plot so bear with me! and just like the title says, an old friend makes an appearance in this chapter. From this point on I'll be thanking my reviewers, so if you want to just read the chapter please skip ahead! Ren: A++ for articulation. McLean7: things will look up eventually, I swear! Scribblez09: your reviews mean so much to me and I get so happy when I see them. Bubbline7: i'm sorry! but here's the next chapter! Babble: that is so sweet, thank you. Guest, Blazer44, and Dorkalicious: I'm so glad you guys took an interest in my story and I apologize for the late update. Thank you all, I love your reviews more than I like most people! Also, a special thanks to my friend NotKasandra for helping me come up with the 'mystery' ****that starts in this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Track: Down in the Valley-The Head and the Heart

To Help an Old Friend:

"So every Thursday around midnight, the ghost of old lady Rochester appears in the mansion, keepin' an eye over the town she used to own."

The man's green eyes glimmer in the light of the campfire, his freckled face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He truly believes in this story he's telling, the one about Tumbleweed and all of its various haunting, and the darkness of this night along with the generally ominous atmosphere of the desert landscape surrounding us do nothing but encourage his belief in the supernatural. He shifts his legs, crossing them so he's sitting Indian style. Beside me, Jack decides to comment.

"I think I read a book like that once."

The man's bored-looking wife nods idly, examining her nails in the firelight, as their young son chases after a firefly that is much too fast for him. This would all amount to the perfect family oriented scene if I wasn't being forced to consume a stew composed almost entirely of raccoon meat. Curse my polite upbringing.

"Have you heard any news 'bout Armadillo?" I ask, putting the stew aside for the present. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd have dumped it out into the shrubbery around us long ago.

"Armadillo? I heard there was a suicide 'round there recently, but not much else." the stranger answers me as he scratches his chin, "That new marshal of theirs, Wade Johnson? Yeah, he's been keepin' things real quiet 'round those parts."

I smile at this news, thinking of Wade and his insistence that Jack and I stay out of town for a while. It's hard to imagine that he was once the kid who showed up at Beecher's Hope, eyes wide with awe when he spotted John Marston. To be fair, though, I'd never met a person who hadn't looked at Mr. Marston that way.

"You're not eatin' your stew," the man points out. His own empty bowl is on the ground beside him, not a speck of food left on it. I shoot Jack a glare that plainly says 'why'd you get me into this situation' before forcing a smile and picking up my seemingly bottomless pit of repulsive slop yet again.

"Y'know, I do believe I heard about somethin' goin' on in the hills north of Hangin' Rock." the man watches me vigilantly as I eat a spoonful of muck, "Somethin' about a native tribe eatin' the organs of normal people to gain some sort of-"

"Henry!" the wife says sharply, "That is not a story for children."

I exchange a glance with Jack. Children? I' m pretty sure Jack, at least, is legally classified as an adult. Perhaps the lady was talking about her son.

"Sorry, Martha, I got carried away," Henry grimaces.

"No, I'd like to hear more about the cannibals," I interject with a grin.

"Same here," Jack agrees.

The redheaded stranger beams at our insistence and shrugs apologetically at his wife.

"I have to do this, Martha. The audience has spoken."

Martha lets out a derisive noise and flounces up to go check on her wagon horses. Inwardly I compare her to some of the more spoiled classmates I'd had during my time at school in Blackwater. It's hard to comprehend why mild mannered Henry made the strange choice of marrying her. Not that it's my place to judge.

"Listen close now, missy," Henry begins, a rather frightening look of delight on his face, "This tale ain't for the fainthearted. I'd recommend you hold your friend's hand for support."

I blush deeply at this, looking down at my lap to avoid seeing Jack's expression. Ever since I'd told him how I felt about him it's been agonizing when someone talks about us like we're together. He rejected me and there's no bouncing back from that, at least, I fear, not for another couple years.

A glance at Jack tells me that he is completely unaffected by Henry's words. That's how he's been since my big reveal: completely, utterly, entirely unaffected. In fact the only reason I know that the whole scene was not actually a nightmare of mine is because he's been treating me a little differently. He doesn't touch me anymore, either in reassurance or to help me up into a wagon. He doesn't mention what happened between us at all and keeps our conversations oriented towards safe topics like the news or the weather or where we'll go next. Sometimes I wish he'd just yell at me, tell me what he was thinking because I don't have the slightest idea. He won't, though. That was never his way.

"It all began three years ago when a woman in Armadillo reported her missin' son to the last marshal, Leigh Johnson, you know, Wade Johnson's father?" Henry asks us as Martha returns and sits back down beside him, "Yeah, he was quite a celebrity in those parts and a lot of folks knew him as the marshal that wouldn't take shit from nobody. Now I don't always trust the people who-"

"Shut up, you old coot." a gravelly voice bursts out from outside of our little camp. Jack and I whirl around to spot a bearded stranger with a shotgun in his hand clutching Henry and Martha's son. His hand is clamped over the little boy's mouth, presumably covering up the screams he'd expected the child would let loose. The kid looks terrified. I look pointedly at Jack and he nods once, very quickly.

"Just hand over all the money you got on you," the man commands, "All of you. Otherwise…it ain't gonna end well for the boy, got it?"

Martha is crying silently into the hem of her dress at this point and Henry seems willing to hand over his own clothes if it guarantees his son's safety. We've got to act before they do anything rash.

"Let the kid go, friend." I say firmly. Over the past few weeks that Jack and I have been involved in this bounty hunting business, I've become quite good at my new job. My voice no longer shakes when I make demands, I no longer sense a change in my pulse when I kill a human being. Sometimes, not often, I feel regret. But that's it.

This criminal, like most criminals, is not accustomed to being ordered around by a sixteen year-old girl. He laughs openly upon hearing my demand, his grip on the child not loosening at all. Over the stranger's hand the little boy's eyes are wide and scared.

"Shut up, bitch, before I forget about the money and take you instead."

This is a threat I've heard much too often recently and by this point it's almost comical. I'm starting to think that some men will have intercourse with anything that has a pulse.

"Watch your tongue." Jack snaps, reacting to the villain's cruel words. I can see his right hand, the hand that's not bathed in firelight, moving towards his revolver. When he grabs it I'll have to move, fast.

"Kid, I'll do what I want with my tongue," the man says, now looking at Martha, "And right now I'm thinkin' 'bout stickin' it up that whore's-"

What occurs next happens so fast that even I, who am a part of it, almost miss out on it entirely. Jack's gun is up and pointed at the disgusting scoundrel's head before he has time to think. I spring up and jump at the child in his grasp, who luckily was not being held too tightly, and the both of us go tumbling down into the grass. Now that we're clear, Jack shoots the bearded man in the chest exactly three times until the idiot keels over. He's not taking any chances.

"BILLY!" Martha screams, running towards her son with her husband right on her heels. I prop the kid up and look him over, checking for any damage worse than a minor scratch. He's crying a little onto my shoulder, his hands gripping the back of my dress quite firmly, but I think that's the worst of it. His parents practically have to rip him off of me when they reach us.

"Are you okay?" Jack asks me, still kneeling by the campfire. If this had happened before my confession he would've come over to me, checked for bruises and broken bones. He doesn't do any of these things though, and it's embarrassing how grateful I feel that he's worried enough to even ask about my well-being.

"I'm fine."

"Oh God, thank you, _thank you_!" Henry has turned to us now, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. Behind him his wife and son are both in tears and in an embrace so tight I'm surprised either of them is still breathing. Jack stands up and walks over to the body lying mere feet from me. He begins to dig around in the dead man's pockets so I'm left to deal with the happy family on my own.

"It wasn't a problem, really." I say with a smile. Henry grabs my hand and pulls me into a bear hug, something I did not expect.

"Mmmph!"

"What do you want?" he inquires, still suffocating me with his embrace, "Money? A horse? How about some more stew, you can take that at least!"

I feel a hand on my shoulder then, and Jack peels me out of Henry's grip. He lets go of me the first second I'm free, as if touching me is something he'd rather not do. Ouch.

"I just realized, I haven't even gotten your names." Henry says this easily, like he wasn't squeezing me to death just seconds ago.

"I'm Effie."

"Jack Marston."

"Just give them some money and send them on their damn way!" Martha shrieks, covering her son's ears.

"You'll have to excuse my wife," the redheaded man begins to dig around in his shirt pocket, "She's never been in this situation before."

He produces a crisp ten dollar bill, which I take and tuck away into my satchel, where Jack and I both keep our money. This is the point at which we usually make our retreat, disappearing into the desert as suddenly as we'd appeared. Following tradition, we say our farewells and speed away on our horses at the earliest opportunity.

"I t-told you we should've j-just kept goin'," I complain, my words coming out jittery as War gallops towards Ridgewood Farm at top speed. Jack rolls his eyes and pulls on his horse's reins to slow him. I follow suit and in doing so, find it much easier to speak.

"When people offer you free food, you take it." he says it like it's basic math.

I don't answer him, thinking that the raccoon stew I'd eaten a couple spoonfuls of doesn't really count as a food item. Unfortunately, Jack can eat anything if he has to and believes firmly in the tenet that no meat should go to waste. I don't feel comfortable eating anything but beef, pork, chicken, and the occasional deer. This difference in our dietary needs has caused quite a few arguments while we've been on the road. It's hard to find much pork or beef in the desert anyway and I find myself praying that they have something I'll find edible in Ridgewood.

* * *

"My dear girl, you've blossomed into quite a beautiful flower haven't you?"

Nigel West Dickens winks at me as he moves around the upturned crate, pouring tea into some little china cups he'd found in his black hole of a wagon. I smile back brightly because, despite his irritating habit of always trying to sell you something, Mr. West Dickens can be quite charming when he wants to be. His presence at Ridgewood was not something Jack and I had anticipated due to his being chased out of the ranch with pitchforks and torches almost two years back, but it seems that the settlers here are more forgiving than we'd thought. As soon as our old friend had spotted us, he'd had us sit down on tiny poufs in the outdoors covered area the Ridgewood farmers rent out to strangers and began brewing us a pot of tea over an open fire.

"In fact, I bet all the fine gentlemen in Blackwater are queuing up to marry you!" he pours the last of the tea into a third cup that he'd found for himself. This is overkill. Once Nigel West Dickens compliments you to a certain extent, you can tell he's trying to get something out of you.

"What's goin' on, West Dickens?" Jack asks the older man, getting right down to business as usual. He too must have realized that Mr. West Dickens' compliments were getting a bit excessive.

The fire crackles on the ground outside of our little shelter, small enough to not bother any of the residents of Ridgewood with unwanted smoke. Nigel West Dickens is gazing at it, his eyes glazed over as he thinks of something that is clearly not us. We wait for him to return to earth but, when it becomes clear he won't do it on his own, Jack snaps his fingers in front of the gentleman's face.

"W-what?" West Dickens looks over at us, his eyes wide, "Oh-I'm so sorry, my good man. I was just thinking of those days long ago when it was your father sitting across from me like this. Although he never was one for tea, that much is certain."

His white mustache, a thing of beauty honestly, bristles with pride as he launches into a particularly illustrious story regarding the time he'd illegally gotten Mr. Marston into a high stakes horse race. He rambles on about the past like this for a long while and I begin to understand that it's a diversionary tactic and West Dickens is just hoping to put us into a mellower frame of mind before he announces his true intentions. Unfortunately for him, Jack never was the most patient guy around. I'm not surprised when my friend overturns his cup of tea over the little campfire, effectively putting it out and making a statement all at once.

"I'd rather skip over the reminiscing, if you don't mind."

I notice a flicker of fear in Mr. West Dickens' expression, and I know he must be seeing Jack the way those who knew his father often do. Tall and wiry with lightly tanned skin and dark eyes, Jack is almost an exact copy of what Mr. Marston once was. Even his lengthy brown mane and light facial hair evoke memories of the elder Marston in the viewer. I know for a fact that the only friends John Marston had that did not fear him the slightest bit were Seth Briars and Leigh Johnson, the former due to insanity and the latter due to a lack of interest in anything but justice. It swiftly becomes clear that Nigel West Dickens is a con man because the one thing a con man fears most is the fellow who doesn't care to hear him out.

"Just like your father," the older man sounds slightly annoyed now, "Jumping into a conversation without any pleasantries. Ah well. The apple never does fall far from the tree."

Jack continues to glower at West Dickens and I, quite used to Jack's universal hostility by now, sip my tea in silence. It's not as sweet as I'd like but sugar seems to be the one thing the old man doesn't keep in his wagon.

"I'd like to be quite honest with you two," West Dickens begins, and I can tell he's lost his calm because he's twiddling his thumbs quite haphazardly.

"That's a first." Jack remarks. Mr. West Dickens fixes him with a scowl and continues speaking as if he wasn't interrupted.

"I was travelling around Armadillo until very recently, selling my new hair growth elixir to the elderly denizens of that lovely town. It works wonders, I promise you!" he pauses then, noticing my full head of hair, "Not that you need it. But a couple of days ago, some of my customers were found…incapacitated."

"They lost their heads?" I gasp, messing with the old fraud. I know perfectly well what incapacitated means, but West Dickens isn't aware of that.

"Not decapitated, my dear girl, incapacitated! They truly need to focus more on the nuances of the English language in that Blackwater school you attended as a child."

"Just get on with it!" Jack commands, shooting me a look of irritation. Unlike our old friend, Jack is fully aware that I am well-versed in the meaning of the word 'incapacitated'.

"They're blaming me for the deaths of those poor people!" West Dickens bursts out, "They chased me out of town in a hail of bullets, those barbaric fools! They deny the advances of science, of technology!"

Jack and I exchange a glance here, remembering that back in the day West Dickens had said the exact same thing about his so-called miracle cure for all ailments. I'd tried a bit of the stuff and found it to be nothing more than snake oil mixed in with what tasted like industrial strength window cleaner.

"Are you sure it wasn't your elixir that killed them, Mr. West Dickens?" I ask kindly, knowing that the old man will lecture me on my lack of manners the first chance he gets.

"Of course it wasn't!"

At this point, Nigel West Dickens whips off his stunning top hat to reveal that his scalp, which I once knew to be nearly bald, is now covered in a thick, white, layer of hair. This revelation shocks me beyond everything else that has happened today because there's no way _our_ West Dickens actually invented a real hair growth product…is there?

"Do you believe me now?" the old man says in response to our looks of astonishment. I find that I'm too stunned to speak and opt for nodding vigorously instead. Jack gets over his shock more quickly than I do.

"We'll look into it."

This seems to be assurance enough for West Dickens and he lets out a breath I hadn't realized he was holding. Clearly pleased with himself for acquiring our assistance, the elderly man leans back on his pouf and takes a swig of bitter tea. He then promptly spits it out to nobody's surprise; that stuff tasted horrible. This reminds me that all I've had to eat or drink today was rank raccoon stew and bitter leaf tea and I make a mental note to ask one of the farmer's around here how much a decent meal will cost. No sooner have I thought this than West Dickens announces he's going to turn in for the night and begins to clear the wooden crate of our teacups. As he transports the poufs back to his wagon, Jack and I retire to our corner of the rented shelter to discuss our next move.

"Do you believe him?" he says under his breath. In case West Dickens is trying to eavesdrop, I pretend to be busy unrolling one of our two sleeping bags.

"I think it doesn't matter," I mutter, "I'd help him out either way."

Jack leans back on his heels and begins to take off his outer clothing. His hat, satchel, guns, jacket, boots and belt are all removed in a matter of seconds. I'll never admit it to him but I'm actually pretty jealous of that ability of his.

"Alright. Then we'll head for Armadillo tomorrow."

I nod my agreement and begin to rid myself of my own satchel and pistol. I take considerably longer than Jack did, and by the time I'm done he's already rolled into his sleeping bag, facing away from me.

"Good night, Jack." I whisper even though I know he won't answer me. Well-wishing in the night time has become a thing of the past for us and I'm surprised by how much I miss his simple _'night Effie'_s.

* * *

When morning arrives Jack and I pack up and prepare to leave without wasting time on much else. I do manage to snag a bacon sandwich off one of the more friendly denizens of Ridgewood Ranch, a cheerful young woman who was preparing breakfast for the fieldhands before they awoke. West Dickens promises to stay in contact with us and wishes us well before getting in his wagon and setting off in the opposite direction. If I had to guess, I'd say he's returning to his old hideout in Cueva Seca.

Armadillo truly is an old western town. From its swinging door saloon to the two celled sheriff's office to the showdowns that often take place in the center of town (one of which Jack was involved in, although I don't like to remember that day), everything about it screams cowboys and outlaws. In terms of population I'd estimate that around thirty people have made the town their permanent residence, with a total of twenty others coming and going as they please. Tumbleweed and sand are the most common exhibitions of Mother Nature that you'd see there and coyotes make a habit of raiding the local garbage bags for leftovers under the cover of the night. Jack and I enter the town by a back road behind the sheriff's office, thinking that it'd be best to alert Wade Johnson of our presence before the rest of the town saw us. The duel between Jack and Jonah had occurred over a month ago but I'm nearly certain that memory of the event is still fresh in the minds of many of the townsfolk.

"Not you again!" a familiar bowler hat-wearing redneck says in response to our presence in front of the sheriff's office. A quick glance at Jack tells me that he's not feeling very warmly towards Jonah either.

"Get out of my face,_ deputy_," Jack is emphasizing the title just because Jonah hates it, I'm sure. The lawman glares at my friend before making his way past us and towards the saloon. Jack rolls his eyes at this and continues into the sheriff's office, but I find myself calling after Jonah for some reason.

"What do you want?" he says accusingly as he turns to face me. I'm guessing that he's not very fond of me due to my friendship with Jack.

"I just wanted to know how you were doin'." I try to look innocent. Jonah doesn't fall for it, probably because people don't tend to ask him about his well-being very often.

"I ain't got time for your bullshit, little girl."

I smile at him and the action seems to surprise him.

"Okay, you got me," I admit with a shrug, "What I really wanted was to know your thoughts on the people droppin' dead around here."

"How do you know 'bout that?" he narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. I can practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he tries desperately to pin some part of the incidents on me and, by extension, on Jack.

"An old friend told me that some people thought it was West Dickens' hair growth elixir doin' those people in. Do you honestly beli-"

Jonah shushes me before I can finish my sentence, looking around as if worried I might be overheard. The closest people are a group of children playing outside of the Armadillo schoolhouse so it's safe to assume that Jonah has a paranoia problem. He puts a wary hand on my shoulder and draws me close before speaking to me in an undertone.

"That shit's s'posed to be secret," I can smell whiskey on his breath, "Watchu doin' shoutin' it out for the whole damn town to hear?"

"Sorry, I-"

We're interrupted by the sound of something banging on a table from within the sheriff's office. I imagine Marshal Johnson smashing Jack's head into the furniture and hurry inside, only to be met by the sight of Jack laughing, _actually laughing_, at something Wade Johnson must have said. The shock alone is enough to make me wonder if I'm dreaming.

"There ain't no way I'm goin' back to Mexico again, that's for sure," Wade seems to be finishing up some comedic story as I enter his office. A quick look around tells me the place hasn't changed much, except that one of the two cells is now holding an emaciated man with an obvious drug addiction. When they realize I've entered the room, Jack stops laughing abruptly. The criminal in the jail cell simply snorts in his sleep and rolls over on the cot he's been allowed to use.

"Miss MacFarlane!" Wade Johnson puts a name to my presence, "You look lovely today, if I do say so myself."

I avoid looking at Jack as I answer the marshal, mostly because I feel annoyed that he thinks he needs to hide laughter on my account. What, does he actually believe seeing him laugh is going to encourage my love for him?

"Thank you, marshal," I hold out a hand for him to shake, "But I think it's about time you started callin' me Effie, don't you?"

He nods at this and kisses my hand lightly instead of shaking it. It's been a long time since a man has acted so gentlemanly towards me and it really is a nice change.

"Then you can call me Wade," he allows. Jack coughs then, effectively ending our pleasantries.

"We should get back to business," he says gruffly, a pretty big change from his light-hearted laughter just seconds ago. Wade gestures towards the chairs in front of his desk and waits until we're seated to lay a couple of worn-looking papers in front of us. The first is a list of names, some with little stars drawn next to them and some scratched out entirely. The others are a series of testimonies from several different people. After skimming the documents I come to the conclusion that Nigel West Dickens isn't really the prime suspect in this investigation anymore.

"Jack already told me that West Dickens asked you to look into the latest rash of deaths in Armadillo," Wade says, watching as we peruse the papers on the desk, "Truthfully, I never thought he was the killer. His stuff always tastes like a skunk smells, but it's not poisonous."

"So who do you think it is?" I inquire, looking at the list of names. _Mary Westwood, William Westwood, Anna Westwood, Liam Westwood_…every person seems to have that surname in common.

"If you're asking me, I'd say it's suicide," Wade gestures towards the paper I'm looking at, "One family member offs themselves, the rest fall like dominoes. I've seen it before."

"With this many people?" Jack comments, glancing at the paper over my shoulder. The marshal shakes his head.

"I don't think it's suicide." I say.

Wade eyes the two of us warily before sighing and collapsing in the seat behind his desk. He seems tired, like he's been working non-stop for a week.

"I know."

Jack and I look at each other, confusion clear on both our faces.

"You know?" Jack asks the marshal.

"Yup. But admittin' that might be more dangerous than anything else."

When the two of us continue to look confused Wade decides to elaborate.

"Whoever's doin' this clearly owns a good amount of fast-actin' poison. We get too close; they might decide to use it on us next."

I hadn't even considered that. I look at Jack, wondering if it's even a good idea for us to take on this sort of mission. Knowing who to kill is easy enough when they have a gun pointed at your head, but things get murky when the enemy hides behind a vial of poison.

"I'd be willing to pay you if you found out anything," Wade says to us then, "I've heard about what you've been up to. Savin' people. Some folk around here have even started calling you heroes."

He brushes hair out of his ocean-blue eyes, watching as I digest this new information. A little while ago these townsfolk had seen Jack almost kill a sheriff's deputy and now they believe he's _that _praiseworthy? I'm not complaining but people really do change their minds quickly around here.

"I'm no hero." Jack says bitterly. If it was anyone else saying this I'd assume they were fishing for compliments, but I know him well enough to understand how he thinks. He's thinking heroes don't let innocent girls get shot in bar fights.

"Regardless, I could use your help."

It feels like Wade Johnson already knows we'll agree to poke around in this mess because he's getting out of his seat without waiting for a response. He walks to the doorway of his office and gestures for us to follow.

"There's an entire town of people out there worried they won't be breathin' tomorrow," he says as we join him, "They count on me to prevent that. I don't want to let 'em down."

There are a lot of things about Wade Johnson I'll never understand, like why he acts so much more genteel than his peers or why he dresses like a socialite more than a sheriff. But I do identify with this because I too have people I want to protect. I tell him this and he smiles down at me warmly.

"One person in particular, right?" he says, and I stiffen up. Does he know how I feel about Jack?

"What?"

Wade looks away from me then and I follow his gaze to the front of the bank, where a girl with waves of long, blonde hair is seated, reading an extremely thick book. I can just barely make out her face from here, and it's immediately clear that she's beautiful in a way I can never hope to be. Her eyes are very large and a forest green that reminds me of Tall Trees. I have never met her before but, judging by the way the marshal is looking at her, I already know one fact about her. She's the girl Wade Johnson loves.

"Her name is Elizabeth _Westwood_," he says to us, "She matters very much to me. And it's beginning to look like she will be the next person to die."


	9. A Slight Disturbance

**A/N-Again, this chapter is up kind of late and I'm so sorry about that. It's not one of my best works either, but at least the next chapter is gonna be an actual plot chapter. To all my readers, thank you for sticking with me for so long, I have no idea how you do it! Blazer44, Scribblez09, and ArkhamQueen, I appreciate your constant support very much. JGomie, I'll do my best to stick with it! Neji, you're absolutely right, Nadine, thanks it's one of my current favorites, Joyne, you're not crazy I can sort of see it too. Reely, having people support this pairing as a couple is a dream come true. EllieEndure2, here's the next chapter, sorry for the wait! DarkDivide7, you honor me with your words. NotKasandra, thanks for the review and helping with the plotline for this mystery thing, haha. Evelynn your review honestly made me smile. Thanks everyone!**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Track: Let Her Go-Passenger

Chapter 9: A Slight Disturbance

Her hair glimmers in the sunlight as I approach her and it somehow seems more golden than blonde. She's still got her head bent over that thick book, nimble fingers flipping through page after page, and it's instantly clear that Elizabeth can read much faster than I can. A closer look tells me the bulky volume is somehow related to medicine. She stops reading when I'm directly in front of her, looking up from the paper to meet me eyes. Something about her makes me think of that prostitute I'd met in Theives' Landing not too long ago, and I conclude that it must be because both of them are lovely in that unattainable way. There's a difference though. Like the sun and the moon, Elizabeth glimmers here in the daylight and Marianne has a way of looking her best at night.

"Can I help you?" she asks me in a tone that is neither unkind nor overtly friendly. I fiddle with the strap of my satchel and take a seat as far away from her as I can while staying on the same bench. Wade Johnson had suggested that I might be able to convince her that she needs protection just because we have gender in common. The marshal of Armadillo may be a prodigy at his job and an immaculate dresser, but he has no idea how the female mind works.

"My name's Effie," I say, holding out my hand. She takes it and shakes lightly before answering.

"Elizabeth Westwood. And I know who you are."

"You do?"

I see her throw a sideways glance at Jack and Wade, who are already more than halfway down the road towards the train station. Jack had been saying something as I was leaving about checking there for new bounties.

"Of course. I know your aunt well enough, at least. How is she?"

I shrug, thinking of the day I'd said goodbye to her. It's not something I like to remember, though, so I just tell Elizabeth the condensed version

"Good. She's got her worries but they won't get her down."

Elizabeth smiles at me for a split second before crossing her legs and moving the thick medical book to her lap. She marks her place in the pages with a bobby pin and closes the novel gingerly, like she's afraid it might fall apart.

"What are you readin' that for?" I question her because I can't imagine any reason I'd ever read such a boring-looking science volume.

"It's required for the medical school I'll be attending next year." she says this quickly, like she feels I won't really care. I'm intrigued, however, since I've never met a female medical school student before.

"That's impressive. They don't usually let girls in."

"They saw my test scores and made an exception," she says, pausing to wave as an elderly woman I've never met before walks past and beams at her, "But I know you're not here to talk about my accomplishments."

If there's ever a time to convince this girl that she's in danger, it's now. I try to hide my emotions away behind the mask of indifference I've seen Jack use so many times, but I'm not sure I'm doing it right.

"Elizabeth," I begin, kicking at the wooden floorboards beneath us, "Five of your family members died just this week. Aren't you worried that you might be next?"

She's silent for a moment but then, to my surprise, she laughs softly. When she spots me watching her she covers her mouth with one dainty hand, a guilty look on her face.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. To be honest, most of the people in my family aren't people you'd want to be related to," she places her hand back on the book in her lap, "To answer your question, I'm not worried. And I'd like to ask you a question of my own."

"Go ahead." I allow. A middle-aged man totters past us, cane in hand, into the bank and Elizabeth waits until he's inside to speak again.

"Wade put you up to this, didn't he?"

At her words I flush a deeply and immediately curse myself for my lack of control over my own bodily functions. Elizabeth sighs, obviously aware that my red face is the equivalent of an affirmation.

"He needs to stop worrying about me. He's got enough on his plate already."

She says the statement to herself and I don't bother to chip in. Seeing Elizabeth like this, her thought process and complete obliviousness to Wade's feelings for her, reminds me of myself back when Jack actually _was_ in love with me. A lot of days I just wish I could go back and slap that younger me until she'd made a move on younger him. That's impossible, though, but maybe I can do something similar for Elizabeth.

"He cares for you." I say bluntly, "Is that such a bad thing?"

I expect Elizabeth to be either angry or shocked when I say this, but one glance at her expression tells me she is neither of these things. Instead she looks resigned.

"I don't have time for any of that," she stands up, thick medical journal in hand, "And I really should get back to studying. I'll be seeing you, Effie."

She gets five paces away before turning back abruptly and addressing me again.

"We should meet up later on when I'm not so busy."

"Sure?" my agreement comes out sounding like a question, but this doesn't seem to bother Elizabeth any. Nodding once, she faces forward once more and heads for a blue two-story house further down the main road. I watch her disappear inside the nondescript building, feeling extremely perplexed. I think I just made a friend, but it's not friendship in a way I'm familiar with. I decide to push my confusion to the back of my mind for the moment and focus on the case instead as it's now obvious that Elizabeth doesn't believe she's in any danger, and Wade needs to know that. I get up from the wooden bench we'd been sitting on and hurry towards the train station, hoping to catch up with Jack and the marshal before they head off somewhere else. On my way there I run into Dr. Nathaniel Johnston, Armadillo's resident physician. We exchange brief pleasantries and he asks me about my aunt's well-being before I rudely interject that I have somewhere I must be and rush away. It seems that being a bounty hunter has affected my communicative skills more than I expected it would.

"Jack!" I call out as soon as I spot my friend. He turns around, a plain white envelope in his hand and a forced expression of nonchalance on his face. The train that had been idling at the station begins to pull away with its whistles blowing loud enough to disturb the entire town.

"Hey. How'd it go with Elizabeth?" he asks me when the steam-powered machine is out of the station and all we have left to remember it by is the ashy taste in the air, the steam that makes it hard to see Jack clearly. His tone sounds forcefully casual, as if he's hiding something. I narrow my eyes suspiciously but decide to continue without questioning him for now.

"It was useless. Where's Wade?"

"In the saloon. He wanted to make sure that idiot deputy and his friend weren't gettin' drunk before their night patrols."

It's immediately obvious that he means Jonah and Eli, and although he looks legitimately aggravated when he talks about the deputies, that ungenuine look of apathy is back on his face in milliseconds.

"Anything new about that poison business?" I say as we leave the train station. I turn for the saloon without making the conscious decision to, but I guess telling the marshal about my chat with Elizabeth is the only logical next step I can take.

"Wade gave me a list of all the Westwoods who're still breathin'." Jack falls into step beside me, his stride matching mine.

"We should go talk to them, see if they know somethin' that-"

"I saw your father. He got on the train that just left."

I freeze up at this, my arms and legs refusing to move, my mind unable to function. Jack stops too and hands me the envelope he'd been holding.

"He told me to give you this. Said it would be faster than mailin' it like he was plannin' on doing."

His voice is gentle as he speaks to me, like he's afraid of my reaction. He's right to be. In all of our years of knowing each other, we've never discussed my father much because every time he'd tried to open up that path of conversation I'd shut him down irately.

"What else did he say to you."

I'm aware as I speak that my tone sounds threatening, feral, but I can't seem to stop it. Jack doesn't look at me and it's clear he expected that I'd act like this.

"The usual." he begins uncomfortably, "That I'm a waste of your time, that if I was a real man I'd tell you to go back to Blackwater where you'd be better off. And he told me to give you that letter."

I hiss, the sound escaping from my lips of its own volition. It's just like my dad to walk into my life and try to fuck with one of the only stable things in it. A drunken man traipses out of the saloon's double doors and towards us, opening his mouth as if about to say something, but one look at the expression on my face makes him back off fast. My hand crushes the envelope it's holding like destroying my father's words will erase what he'd said to my friend. I shouldn't be surprised, though. My father's done this to Jack before.

"I don't think he knew we left the farm, if that helps."

Surprisingly, it does. I loosen my hold on the letter and try to smooth out the damage with my thumb. Assuming that my father had searched for me at the family farm and then travelled down to Armadillo to search some more, this letter must contain some information I really need to know.

"I'll go get Wade." Jack says, as if he knows I need to be alone when I read this. He disappears into the wooden structure before us and I make my hands stop shaking long enough to open the envelope. The letter inside is folded into perfect thirds and covered in my father's faultless, loopy script.

_Effie,_

_ I'll begin this letter as I begin all of these letters and ask you once again to come home. Don't you think you've been running around aimlessly on that Marston boy's land long enough? It's about time you did something useful with your life. I worry about you, dear girl, I know I don't tell you that enough._

_ Now that I've done the usual bit, I must admit that I have another reason I am writing. First I must address your friend Collette's marriage. It was nice to hear that she's doing so well for herself and it gave me hope that you might start moving in the same direction soon. I have something else to discuss with you, but it is something far too important to be done on paper. I need you to come home at your earliest convenience._

_ -P. M._

He closes all his letters in the same way, with his initials and a large, swooping signature underneath. I fold the paper back up, more mystified than anything else. As I ponder what could be so important that it could not be said in a simple note somebody knocks into me, somebody who, I notice as I straighten up, I've met before.

"Marianne?" I say as the girl before me smoothes out her voluminous dress. I avert my eyes when I realize that the neckline shows much more cleavage than I'm accustomed to seeing.

"Oh." she says disdainfully, "It's you."

"Yeah," I don't know how else to reply to this. Marianne appraises me, obviously unimpressed by what she sees, before glancing at the saloon. Her strange purple eyes brighten then and she looks back at me with a renewed interest.

"If you're here, that means your handsome friend is too."

I'm about to roll my eyes and insult her intelligence when the person in question walks through the saloon doors with the marshal in tow. Both men see Marianne standing in front of me but only Wade seems to truly register her appearance. The expression on his face says he knows Marianne better than he wants to.

"Hey sugar," Marianne is very clearly speaking to only Jack, "Changed your mind yet?"

My friend lifts one eyebrow, confused. It seems to me that even if he remembers who Marianne is, he's forgotten that she offered him a freebie after he rescued her. Well, after _I_ rescued her.

"Go sell your soul somewhere else, Marianne," Wade Johnson says over Jack's shoulder. The prostitute gives him a look of pure venom, but leaves us for the saloon anyway . I guess even she has to follow the marshal's orders.

"Do you know her?" I ask Wade. He watches for a moment as Jack pulls a crumpled paper out of his jacket and then turns to answer me.

"Everyone in Armadillo knows Marianne. By my count she's wrecked more marriages 'round here than financial issues and drinking problems put together."

I snort at this. It doesn't surprise me at all to know that Marianne cares nothing for the sanctity of marriage.

"We should talk to this one first," Jack interrupts, pointing to some name I can't see, "She's the only one left on that side of the family, besides Elizabeth and her parents."

Wade Johnson surveys the list, his eyes finally stopping at the name Jack is singling out. I can practically see his mind working as he considers the name and I'm not surprised when he lets out a little sound of triumph.

"When her grandfather dropped dead last week he left a bunch of money behind." he informs us animatedly, "I bet that's what the killer's after."

"Then we better get over there quick." I pipe up, still not sure who exactly we're discussing. Jack nods in agreement and Wade, after tugging the list out of the other man's grip, concurs.

"Her name is Lucinda Westwood," he says as he leads us back to the sheriff's office, "She lives a little ways out of town. You okay with ridin' there on horse?"

I grin widely, surprised the marshal would even ask us such a question. The answer is very clear on my face and, with a barely audible sigh, Wade Johnson unhitches his horse.

* * *

The ride over to Lucinda's home is very short when on horseback, and I use the time to tell Wade what Elizabeth had told me. He doesn't seem surprised at all to hear my news, merely thoughtful.

"I guess I didn't really expect her to let me help. She never has before." he admits, dropping back to ride alongside me. Jack takes the lead for him, a map of Cholla Springs County clutched in his left hand. The land here is covered in sand, sand, and more sand. The little grass that grows in the desert is dwarfed by the numerous spiky cactuses that line the dirt road. It should be nothing to me, a blight on the face of New Austin at most, but here in the afternoon light it is beautiful.

"What's this L-Lucinda woman like?" I inquire, faltering when War hits a bump in the path.

"She's a gamblin' spinster who only comes to town twice a month for supplies," Wade says bluntly, "I've only ever been to her house once before, for taxes."

He pats his caramel colored horse idly, his mind clearly somewhere else. In front of us Jack pulls on his steed's reins just slightly. I can see Lucinda's house in front of me, a shabby thing with a strangely bright red door. The dilapidated structure is not much to look at, but the surprisingly luxurious stagecoach beside it is. To its front are attached four pure white, healthy horses. It reminds me of the stagecoach in a story my nanny had told me when I was younger, Cinderella or something.

"She sure loves spendin' that blood money." Wade comments, glancing at the horses. Despite his disapproving tone I can tell he's impressed. We all are. It's at that moment that Lucinda decides to make her appearance, thrusting the door of her shack open with far too much gusto. She's bedecked in layers upon layers of jewels and a dress that I remember seeing the last governor's wife wearing at the annual Blackwater Ball.

"Marshal Johnson?" she says with an air of haughtiness, "What are you doing on my property?"

The marshal looks at her, the incredulity just barely noticeable in his gaze. Despite his own penchant for dressing like a politician, he doesn't seem to feel any more kindly towards Lucinda for her extravagant wear.

"In case you haven't noticed, half of your family has dropped dead in the past week."

"Ah, of course." the lady tucks a lock of light brown hair behind her ear, "Fine, I know why you're here, but who are these two? They look like they crawled out of a rat's nest!"

"Rude!" I feel scandalized. In front of me, Jack smiles just slightly.

"We're here to offer you _protection_, Ms. Westwood."

"I don't need your protection, marshal," she fidgets with one of the opulent gems on her fingers, "Just tell those Blackwater vultures to finish processing my inheritance!"

Without another word to us she stalks over to the stagecoach and gets inside, slamming the door, before leaning out of the passenger's window a moment later and shouting for someone I can't see. A shabby looking man scampers out of the outhouse behind Lucinda's ramshackle home and clambers into the driver's seat. With a couple quick whips of the reins, Lucinda, her scruffy driver, and her beautiful horses have all disappeared into the horizon. The three of us are entirely dumbfounded.

"Well…" I begin, but I don't know how to continue. Jack takes over for me when it becomes obvious that I'm at a loss for words.

"Let's go check on everyone else on that list."

* * *

Arthur Westwood, Elizabeth's father, unlocks the door to his recently deceased brother's home for us. A quick look around the simple domicile tells me that Liam must have been some sort of survivalist. The rooms are sparsely decorated, the only furnishings in them a bed and dining table with two chairs. A thin layer of dust covers every nook, cranny, and surface of the household. Wade leads us to the living room where the chalk outline of a body is still visible on the wooden floor.

"That's where you found him?" Jack asks the marshal, gesturing towards the chalk outline. Wade shakes his head.

"No. I wish I had, though." he crosses his arms over at chest and glances at Elizabeth's father uncomfortably, "It was Arthur's youngest daughter that found him. Her name's Claudia."

I shudder, thinking of a little girl walking over to her uncle's house only to find his lifeless body on the floor. The look on Jack's face tells me that he's thinking exactly the same thing. Despite his rough exterior he's always had a soft spot for children and dogs.

"The man didn't have much, did he?" he speaks then, picking up a lone shot glass from the one table in the house.

"A lot of us have to make do with less now," Mr. Westwood explains, "Ever since that war in Europe started…let's just say that those federal tax collectors have been sucking us dry."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. Haven't you been keeping up with the news, Mister?"

Jack chuckles softly at this, his eyes on the shot glass in his hand. I know even before he speaks that he has _not_ been keeping up with the news. Neither have I. The men begin to talk Blackwater politics and I, feeling alienated due to my dad's fortunate wealth, sneak back downstairs. I'm not even halfway down when I nearly run over a small girl. I thrust out one arm to catch her as she falls, her blonde curls sent flying.

"Claudia! God's sake, what have I told you about watching your step?" a somewhat recognizable voice reprimands. I look up to see Elizabeth standing at the bottom of the staircase, and she doesn't seem surprised to meet me here.

"My father told me to keep an eye on her," the elder girl clarifies, looking harried, "She ran over here the second I took my eyes off of her. She has an unhealthy attachment to him."

I nod like that information was something I needed to know, and release the little girl. She scurries up the stairs and I note that she doesn't seem to be traumatized at all by the events that have occurred over the past several days.

"How's the studying goin'?" I ask Elizabeth when we're alone. She smiles a guilty little smile and waves her hand idly.

"I guess I'm on break or something."

She brushes the skirt of her dress to the side and takes a seat on the last step of the staircase. I hesitate, unsure if I should move at all, before settling down beside her.

"It must be hard, keepin' up those great test scores." I muse as I examine my fingernails. If I'm being honest with myself, I'm not sure why I'm even talking to this girl. It's not like I'm looking to make friends or even acquaintances, but everything feels simpler when I speak to her; like I can explain less and take in more.

"Hard doesn't even begin to cover it." the blonde girl says bitterly, "But you do the best you can with the hand you're dealt. I just wish the men in my field would take me more seriously."

I laugh aloud at this and Elizabeth looks at me with one eyebrow raised, probably coming to the conclusion that I'm insane.

"Some men won't take you seriously even if you put a bullet in their head." I think of my own experiences, "You wouldn't believe how many men I've put in jail in the past three weeks alone, and the marshal still asks me if I'm okay every time I turn a bounty in."

I hear the sound of a door slamming from upstairs, and then an angry voice scolding Claudia. I think it's safe to say that the little girl really is a handful.

"Wade's just a gentleman. It's always been his way."

I picture the marshal in my head, a lanky man of more than six feet tall. Today he's wearing a crisp red tie and a pinstriped black jacket, something I'd imagine would make more sense on the body of a high-stakes poker champion. If he's not a gentleman, I don't know what is.

"He says he loves me, you know." Elizabeth says secretively. I feel like she expects me to act surprised, but I'm not. His love for her had been obvious from the first moment he'd shown her to us.

"I could tell."

"Just because you love someone, it doesn't mean they have to love you back," the girl beside me continues as if I hadn't spoken, "Seriously, it's like he thinks we're Romeo and Juliet or something."

She sounds harried and uncomfortable, and I can tell that this topic isn't one she brings up very often. I'm a temporary resident of this town so it's probably easier to talk about it to me.

"So you're not interested in him?" I ask her then. Elizabeth gives me a look that I've more often seen on old men with back pain.

"It doesn't matter if I'm interested or not." she blurts this out as the front door of the residence opens just slightly, "I don't plan on sitting around in Armadillo as some marshal's wife."

I'm looking past her now, towards that open door, and she realizes it a moment too late. A burly man is standing in front of us, one meaty fist clenching the doorway that frames him.

"You, girl," he's looking at me, "Are you a Westwood?"

I'm debating whether or not to answer him when Elizabeth pipes up.

"I am." she's too honest, "Is there something you need?"

The beefy stranger moves into the hallway and I notice, for the first time, the peculiar top hat perched on his head. He's a Walton's gang member.

"Lucinda Westwood. Where's she at."

His question sounds like a statement, and it doesn't take a genius to see that that this man's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Sweat is running down his brow, although whether it's from anxiety or the heat, I'm not sure.

"She lives north of town in this hideous shack," Elizabeth admits with a shrug, "She's usually home by nightfall."

I elbow her in the gut before she reveals anything else, but she just elbows me back like it's some sort of inside joke. Thankfully the Walton's gang guy decides to leave right then without another word.

"That was odd." Elizabeth remarks. I roll my eyes and decide to save the lecture on keeping important information private for later. Right now, I have an idea I need to run by the marshal.

* * *

"So the poison was in the shot glass?" I question, taking a seat on top of Wade Johnson's desk. The marshal nods absentmindedly as he pours some whiskey into three mugs, one for each of us.

"Jonah and Eli did a quick check at the other kill spots and they found the same thing," Wade says, "Some white powder on cups and in bottles in their houses. It's pretty obvious that the killer is no professional."

I pick up one of the cracked mugs and Jack takes another. It's not very monumental but I think this is the first time we've had a drink together. The whiskey burns when it goes down but it warms me up, something that, in this weather, I really appreciate.

"Who do you think would be willin' to kill this many people over thousand bucks?" Jack says, drinking his own whiskey like it's nothing. I'd forgotten that he'd gone off on a bender a few months before his mother had announced that she had tuberculosis.

"Not Arthur," Wade is looking down at his list now, "And not his wife either, they've always been upstandin' folk."

"I think it was Lucinda."

Both men look at me when I say this and the skeptical expressions on their faces tell me more than they'll admit out loud. They think I'm wrong. Wade takes a swig of whiskey nonchalantly, leaving Jack to deliberate with me on his own.

"Effie, she's got enough money on her own," Jack points out, putting his mug down, "She wouldn't need to do that."

"When we were in Liam Westwood's house, a Walton's gang member showed up and asked Elizabeth where Lucinda lived. You know that they loan people money and-"

Wade Johnson cuts me off by slamming his mug of whiskey down on the desk in front of him. The liquor inside splashes out, completely drenching our list and what looks like several tax forms. Oops.

"_Walton's gang asked her where Lucinda lived and you didn't tell me?_" the marshal shouts across the table. I'm shocked. I've never seen him lose his cool before.

"I'm tellin' you now," I remind him, but it seems like he's too far gone to care. He springs up from his seat and heads for the door leaving me and Jack to exchange a concerned glance before rushing after him.

"They've probably got her by now." Wade fumes, unhitching his horse, "We have no case. All those people dead, all those friends still wondering, and we have nothin' to tell them."

"Relax," somehow, Jack has become the voice of reason, "We don't know she's dead. Let's just get over there, _now_."

Wade glares at me and I stare right back. The marshal and I had formed a tentative friendship over the past few weeks so it's no surprise that he can't maintain this state of fury for very long. He lets out a sigh, and his anger, before moving aside so Jack and I can reach our horses too.

* * *

"Ms. Westwood?" Wade Johnson raps on the door yet again, "Ms. Westwood, I am orderin' you to open this door."

No answer. There's been no answer for the past ten minutes and I'm getting sick of it.

"Move," I tell the steadfast marshal.

"What?" Wade Johnson seems upset that I'm trying to boss him around but stands aside anyway. I lean back, meaning to gather all my strength in one limb, and kick the door as hard as I can. It bursts open with a resounding _crack_, sending splinters of wood and dust particles everywhere.

"Wow," Jack's surprised by my initiative, "I didn't know you could do that."

"Neither did I," I admit, poking my head into the rundown house, "MS. WESTWOOD?!"

Suddenly all I can feel is the cold touch of something metallic on my temple. I freeze up, worried that turning my head could provoke the person holding a gun to my head to pull the trigger.

"Put the gun down _now_," Jack growls at the individual I can't see, and the sound is terrifying enough to send a shiver down even my spine. The object on my temple quivers just slightly before sliding down the side of my face. When its touch is gone completely I finally feel safe enough to turn to my would-be shooter. It's Ms. Westwood. The lady who looked so extravagant just earlier today has somehow been reduced to a blubbering mess. Makeup is smeared all over her face, her hair is frizzed up, and her dress is torn in several places.

"What do you want?!" she shrieks at the marshal, "Just go back to investigating my shit family!"

"Ms. Westwood, we know it was you," Wade says firmly, moving towards the crazed woman as slowly as possible, "And now Walton's gang is after you. What exactly have you been up to?"

Lucinda Westwood raises her revolver again when the marshal gets too close, but her form is shaky. I can tell she's not a practiced shot. Despite the obvious danger he's in, Wade Johnson continues to step forward.

"I just can't figure out why." he admits once her gun is just inches away from his chest, "Did they force you to do it? Are they payin' you?"

Lucinda begins to cry in earnest then, her cheeks getting red and blotchy as she does so. Her revolver is pressing into Wade Johnson's ribcage but all four of us know that she won't shoot him. She had her chance and she didn't take it.

"I h-had no other choice!" she whimpers, tears sliding down her face, "I b-borrowed money from those f-fuckers and spent half on all this!"

The woman pauses to gesture at the luxuriousness of her house which, despite its outside appearance, is quite lovely. An opulent chandelier hangs from the ceiling above us and the loveseat and armchairs in the living room seem to all be covered in some fancy red suede material.

"And I blew the rest!" she pauses to blow her nose on her sleeve and I cringe, "I'm great at poker, m-marshal, you know I am! I was just drunk that n-night and-"

"Hold on. You poisoned your kin to pay off a fucking loan?"

The speaker is Jack and he looks furious. He's thinking of his parents, I know, and how much he'd give to have them back, and here is this lady who gave up her own blood for money.

"They will _kill_ me! They want to make an example out of me!"

"_You should've died instead_-"

Jack breaks off right then and spins around to face the still-open front door. He gestures for the marshal to grab Ms. Westwood and shoves me behind the loveseat in the other room.

"What's goin' on?" Wade whispers, crouching beside one of the armchairs. He's got one hand over Lucinda's mouth and another around her middle, keeping her pinned down in front of him.

"I heard somethin'." Jack hisses. I pull my repeater off my back without a second thought, knowing that holding a gun keeps me ten times safer than bulletproof armor ever could. Wade glances at the door then back at us before releasing Ms. Westwood.

"Stay down," he tells her before addressing us, "I've got an idea. You two just shoot everything you see, got it?"

"That's your idea?!" I demand.

"No time for arguin'."

Before I can say anything else the marshal is up and all the way across the room. He removes a small knife from his belt loop and positions it on top of a rope which, I now notice, is holding up the chandelier above the entryway.

"…I swear to God, I heard shouting."

"_Shut it, Kent_."

At least two men are circling the shack now, arguing loudly enough for us to hear every word. If this is how they think an ambush goes, they need to try again. Wade Johnson looks at me pointedly and I nod once as I peek around the loveseat to try and get a glimpse of our assailants. The strangers are very clearly Walton's gang members and, judging by the shotguns they're holding, they're not looking to make friends.

Wade Johnson cuts through the rope with one sharp pull of his knife the first second the two step inside the house. The chandelier goes crashing down and the noise it makes, coupled with the shrieks of Lucinda Westwood, provide a perfect cover for Jack and I to start shooting the other gang members who rush in after them. When the dust clears only Wade, Jack, and I are left standing. The two men Wade had taken down with the chandelier seem to still be alive and Ms. Westwood refuses to stop screaming bloody murder from her position on the floor.

"I think they're knocked out!" the marshal yells over Lucinda's endless cries as I kneel beside the demented woman to try and calm her down.

"You're not gonna die, lady!" I insist, shaking her just slightly. She stops her noise almost immediately and decides to grab me by the collar instead.

"They'll keep coming after me!" she breathes as if she's telling me some secret, "They'll never stop!"

The marshal walks over to yank Ms. Westwood up and ties the severed chandelier rope around her wrists. She struggles at the bindings just slightly, her messy tresses frizzing up even more.

"You can't do this! What about those two idiots on the floor?!"

"Relax you old bat, we'll get to them," Jack says bitterly, kicking the chandelier off the unconscious men. I find that I'm glad when they don't wake up.

"Alright men," Wade Johnson says, looking at us, "Let's tie them up and finish this back at the office."

* * *

The long metal snake slides to a stop in front of me and I find that I'm not happy to see it. Blackwater has been weighing on my mind so heavily that I can now taste the automobile exhaust of its air on my tongue, hear the semi-constant rush of noise that comes with having more than four hundred people live in the same small city. I can just envision my father standing beside me, his hand on my back, pushing me into a world that is no longer my own. Thankfully, the only person who's standing beside me right now is Jack.

"It's a good thing we got that Westwood poisonin' thing over with so quick," I tell him, hitching one of War's saddlebags over my shoulder. As usual I have to leave my horse behind, knowing that my father would give me hell for bringing him along.

"Sure. I just love puttin' crazy people in jail."

This sarcasm is the closest Jack has come to sharing a joke with me in almost a month. I smile at him and climb up the steps that lead into the train.

"You sure you won't come along?" I ask my friend, pausing at the entry. It would be much easier for me if I didn't have to do it alone.

"To Blackwater? I think it'll be better for both of us if you're dad's not tryin' to get me killed the whole time you're there." Jack reasons. I wish I could call his statement an exaggeration, but it's really not.

"Fine, but at least make sure you find West Dickens and tell him what went on, alright?"

"Will do."

The train whistle blows then, and the engineer at the helm signals that we're about to leave the station. Jack tugs on the red scarf around his neck, as uncomfortable as ever with goodbyes.

"You'll be here when I come back, right?" I blurt out, almost begging, "You better not try and leave me behind for my own good or anythin'."

Jack laughs at this.

"I'll be here. If I was gonna sneak off I would've done it earlier."

"Good."

The train lurches forward then, throwing me off balance. Jack thrusts an arm out to catch me but it turns out to be unnecessary.

"I'll miss you, you know!" I call out as the distance between us grows. For a split-second I worry that I've crossed the line, that he's going to act like he did when I told him how I felt, but then he grins.

"I know. Just come back in one piece."

I'm too far away to say anything else that can be heard over the churning of the train's wheels and, for some reason, I'm perfectly okay with that. I've said everything I needed to, everything I've thought. If there's anything left to talk about now, it's his job to say it. The train picks up speed, leaving Armadillo entirely, and Jack continues to stand there, watching, until all I can see of him is a spot of darkness on the horizon.


	10. An Untimely Proposal

**A/N- Okay, here goes. It's time for probably the biggest apology I've ever made. I am so sorry to all of you guys for taking over two weeks to update this, but I do have some honestly good reasons for it. Turns out that moving, starting school, and buying Saints Row 4 all in the same week is a very bad idea. My internet was down for way too long (seriously, xfinity, what's with that?) and I wasted a lot of time messing around with this chapter instead of just publishing it. I want to thank you guys for sticking with me even though I'm so unsteady and in return, there's going to be a surprising twist to the next chapter that I think fans of the game will really like. I'll skip the individual thank yous for this update (you all probably know how much i love you by now) and get down to the story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Track: Out on the Town -Fun.

Chapter 10: An Untimely Proposal

My father has never been a very nice man.

When I was five, I witnessed him ordering the battery of a fellow who was stupid enough to try and cheat him on a business deal. As far as I know, that man walked with a limp from then on. When I was eight I caught him ensuring the destruction of a small settlement just because its founders dared to start a village on his land. Nobody died, but those settlers lost everything they had. When I was twelve he singlehandedly brought to light the charges that made Nate Johns lose his position as governor of West Elizabeth. That particular exploit was beneficial for the entire territory, but my father only did it to bring down the man who was holding back the expansion of his business endeavors. Despite all these misdeeds, though, my father was always kind to me. For some reason it had never been enough.

This is why, when I arrive at Blackwater in the winter of 1914, I don't feel particularly happy to be there.

* * *

"Miss MacFarlane!" a well-dressed man in his early twenties calls out to me as I make my way across the train station. Judging from his marvelous posture and eager-to-please attitude, he must be one of the newer servants.

"Hey." I acknowledge the stranger. He looks taken aback by my words, and I remember too late that _hey_ is not a proper greeting in Blackwater. Perhaps he would have felt more at home with a hearty _hello, my good man_.

"I can take your bags for you, if you'll allow me to," the manservant says this quickly, as if trying to cover up his surprise at my vernacular. I smile easily and allow him to take my saddlebag from me and he leads me down the steps and into the always busy Moore Avenue where quite a few people greet me by my first name. I return their salutations as politely as I can, but just barely manage to hold back and expletive when I see the newest mode of transportation my father has purchased. The automobile before me is large, black, and clunky with red leather seats inside. If Jack could see this he'd die from excitement.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" the servant asks me as he dumps my bag into the backseat. I nod, stepping closer to run my hand over the vehicle's smooth exterior.

"I didn't catch your name." I say to the man next to me. He smiles good-naturedly and I notice that he's quite handsome, something that isn't very common among the serving class.

"Desmond." he says simply, "Now, Miss MacFarlane, we should probably get home before your father comes looking for you."

I respond to this suggestion with a noncommittal grunt and get in the passenger seat of the automobile. Desmond is still smiling in that same bland way as he settles in beside me, gripping the wheel before him with practiced hands. He drives down the street and turns away from the center of town, towards my old house, and I watch like a hawk in hopes of memorizing his technique. I quickly realize that learning to drive is a feat that will take much longer than this ride will, and instead turn my attention to the scenery around me. This part of Blackwater is better known as 'Uptown' where wealthy individuals like my father and several high-class politicians make their homes. We pass by Seth Briars' house as I ponder this, and I recall that Rufus must be there along with Seth's wife and kids. I'll have to visit them before I head back to Armadillo.

"How has the country been treating you, Miss MacFarlane?" Desmond pipes up as I lean out of the automobile, trying to get a good look at Seth's backyard. It doesn't look like Rufus is there at the moment.

"Better than the city ever did," I say, maybe too honestly, "People expect less of you out there, you know?"

"I do, actually," the manservant admits as he pulls up next to the second largest house in uptown, "I grew up in Gaptooth Ridge."

He turns off the vehicle and gets out gracefully, opening my door for me before bending over the backseat to grab my luggage. I think I understand now why my father hired Desmond. He saw a bit of himself in the younger man, what with both of them being country boys who had aspirations for bigger and better things that could only come with city life. Desmond heads right up the steps to the door without pause, but I have to stop and admire the view. After all, this expansive, white house with its green shutters and wraparound porch will someday be mine. The only thing that separates the plot of land from the rest of Blackwater is a white picket fence on three sides and Black Iron Lake on the other.

"I'm here!" I call out as Desmond holds open the door for me and disappears up the stairs, presumably taking my luggage to my room. This is the typical fashion in which I announce my arrival at my father's house. One look around the spacious living room tells me that father hasn't touched the furnishings here once since my last visit. The two lacy couches and their matching white armchairs are still set in a semi-circle around the glass coffee table in the center of the foyer, but there is a single pale Calla in a vase on its surface. I assume that Desmond or one of the maids has taken to replacing the flower with a new one every couple of days. I sit down on an armchair on the far right, glad I'd chosen to wear a dress today. It's one less thing for my father to criticize when he sees me.

The man in question makes his appearance mere seconds after I take my seat, entering the room from a hallway directly across from me. He's wearing a crisp black suit and neither his curlicue mustache nor elegantly cropped black locks have a hair out of place.

"Darling," he breathes, approaching me, "You look lovely."

He leans over me and we embrace momentarily. Anything my father does happens quickly and is over in the blink of an eye. I'd spent a great part of my childhood trying not to blink so as not to miss any of it.

"Thank you," I say, smiling slightly in spite of myself. He sits on the couch beside me and snaps his fingers just once. Not a minute passes before one of our younger maids, Amealia I think, brings out a tray with a tea set perched on top. She sets it down on the table in front of us along with a plate of finger sandwiches, and backs out as quickly as she came.

"How was the journey here?" my father says, pouring the contents of the teapot into two china cups, "I never did enjoy riding the train much myself."

"It was fine, but I'm guessin' you won't need to take the train again, right?"

I'm referring to the automobile and, judging by the smug look on his face, my dad knows it. He's always liked to put up appearances, my old man.

"It's a wonderful thing," he brags about the machine, "Nearly as fast as a horse and so easy to drive."

"I'd like to learn." I admit. He eyes me warily as I pick up one of the dainty sandwiches, putting one hand under my chin to catch any crumbs. Pretty soon he'll be lecturing me on the correct way to drink tea from a cup.

"I'll have Desmond teach you sometime," my father agrees easily. He's always been pretty good about making sure I keep up with the latest scientific and technological advances and I wouldn't be surprised if he bought that automobile, in part, so that I could become skilled at driving it.

"What did you ask me to come home for?" I blurt out even though I know that the words will certainly grant me some ire from my father. Every time I come home to Blackwater, I get the feeling that I'll be reverted back to my old self if I don't get out quickly. That Effie couldn't tell a repeater apart from a rifle and frankly, she didn't much care about the difference. That Effie is a girl I never wanted to be.

My father frowns at me over the rim of his teacup, silent and foreboding. I can see a twitch of that familiar annoyance in his expression and I know what he's thinking. He wanted to me to be more of a proper lady than this.

"I know this is where I'd usually comment on your lack of decorum, but I'm simply tired of trying to change you." he sighs and puts down the cup, "There is a much more important matter we need to discuss today."

I can't even imagine what could be so important that it would encourage my father to forgo one of his infamous sermons.

"Do you remember Charles Vanderbilt?" he says pointedly. At his words I can just faintly recall the handsome face of a boy four years older than me who'd attended Blackwater School at the same time I had. Granted, our age difference meant that we rarely had any need for interaction, but in the few instances that we had spoken he was quite friendly towards me.

"Everyone remembers Charles Vanderbilt."

"Good." my father is smiling just slightly now, "Well he came by to speak to me just a few days ago and he told me some very interesting things about the two of you."

"We barely ever talked." I point out.

"Even so, he told me that he'd been quite taken with you the few times you had."

Taken with _me_? That the great-grandson of the patriarch of Vanderbilt University somehow had the entirely idiotic idea to be taken with me of all people is something I don't think I'd believe in any situation.

"Really?" I don't know what else to say. My father nods.

"He intends to court you."

My heartbeat speeds up slightly at this news and I find that I'm at a loss for words. I've never been courted before and, to be honest, there's never really been anyone here whom I _wanted_ to court me. Jack is the only guy I've ever felt any of those more sentimental emotions for. My father continues to watch me, his hands folded together in his lap, waiting for me to answer with…what? Joy? Excitement?

"That's a surprise." I say honestly. My father coughs just once to clear his throat, indicating that he's about to say something that is, to him at least, of the utmost importance.

"You know I've never been one for arranging marriages, Effie." he reminds me, "I've always thought that you could find someone on your own if you wanted to. I still stand by that belief, but I urge you to consider Charles very carefully. He's a kind man from what I've heard, and he's wealthy and connected in a way that makes him worthy of your time. I suggest that you get to know him before you reject him."

My father is being very reasonable right now and that in and of itself is unusual. I can't not consider this. I mean, no one has ever shown any serious interest in me before.

"Okay." I say, "I'll think about it, I promise."

I stand up then, my sandwich finished and my teacup entirely drained. I don't want to be here anymore. If I have to stay in Blackwater for a while, I'd rather spend my time around a friend.

"Where are you going?" my father asks me in a lively tone. He's probably hoping I'm on my way out to see Charles already. I won't tell him this, but I think I'm going to stay away from the Vanderbilt boy for some time despite my promise to get to know him. I have other things I need to sort out first.

"I should check in on Collette. I told her I'd drop by to help with the wedding plannin' if I came back to Blackwater."

My father looks disappointed for a brief moment, but the emotion disappears just as quickly as it came. He calls out for Desmond and the manservant appears before us faster than I thought humans could walk.

"Could you take my daughter over to the Miller household?" the elder man asks, "I don't think she should be driving the automobile by herself just yet."

"Of course, sir. Miss MacFarlane?"

Desmond is holding his arm out to me and, before I take it, I think about how strange all of this is. Why is everyone so hell-bent on being proper around here? How much easier would it be, for example, if I was allowed to eat a three-course meal with one fork instead of three? Or if I could just jog down the streets to Collette's place without everyone looking at me like I was insane?

The automobile starts up with a sputter that makes me rethink the entire idea of vehicular transportation. I mean, is it really safe? At least when horses collide their riders usually crawl away with nothing more permanent than a few broken bones. And with all I've been hearing about flying machinery, I really think we have to draw the line somewhere before-

My thoughts stop abruptly as we pass by the Briar estate. Rufus. Rufus is laying there on the front porch.

"Stop!" I shout at Desmond. He flinches, clearly frightened by my tone, but does as I command anyway. I jump over the still-closed door the moment the automobile ceases its movement and race across the expansive lawn between me and that dog at top speed. Only when I go up the stairs to the porch do I see that he's not alone.

"Abilene!" I exclaim, crouching down in front of the young girl. If I remember correctly, she's turning ten this year, "It's great to see you, how are you?"

She starts to answer me but before she can get the words out, Rufus springs up and nearly bowls us both over. The blonde dog rams his head into my chest and almost sends me toppling back down the stairs.

"He missed you." Abilene says bluntly, "And Jack too. Is he here?"

"He's in Armadillo. He couldn't come along."

The little girl looks visibly disappointed and I'm not surprised by that. She's had a little crush on Jack for years. I reach down to pet Rufus and try to ignore the fact that she and I have that in common.

"Where's everyone else? Your parents? Lewis?" I ask her. It's strange that her younger brother isn't with her now because all my memories of her include him somehow.

"Mama took Lewis to the store."

I decide not to ask for specifics.

"And your father?"

"He's inside," Abilene announces, "I'll go get him!"

The little girl turns on her heels and pushes open the front door to her house before disappearing inside it. Rufus rolls over, showing me his stomach, and proceeds to wag his tail like crazy when I scratch under his ribcage. I look over my shoulder and am impressed to see Desmond still seated in the automobile, waiting for me. He's good at his job.

A familiar man is standing in the doorway when I turn back around, a man I respect more than almost any other. Seth Briars is now a vision of health and well-being as opposed to the scrawny, sunburned mess he was when I first met him. His smile is wide as he looks down at me and it reaches his blue eyes. His daughter has come along with him, clutching at his leg in that way children do.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asks facetiously, and although he's now dressed like a wealthy man there's absolutely no hiding that familiar hick accent he's always had.

"Doubt it," I huff, standing up, "I'm at least twelve classes above yours."

He laughs at that and, as usual, I feel a tinge of pride that at least one person finds me funny. I only wish I could make Jack laugh more often.

"C'mere," he pats the seat of one of the chairs littering the porch, "Tell me how you've been."

I obey both of his commands and proceed to tell him the exciting story of my past few months. I soften certain parts of it, (Abilene's listening in, after all) but I do my best to paint Seth the most detailed picture I can. There's just something about him that makes you want to talk to him about the more important things and I wonder if, excuse the grave-robber pun, it's because you know he'll take your secrets to the grave. He nods at all the right parts of my tale and looks politely concerned through the rest of it. Seeing him here, on the porch of this large house with this beautiful little girl in his lap, makes me wonder how he'd ever been any other person than the one he is today.

"Sounds like you've been havin' a rough time." he comments when he knows I'm done talking. I nod weakly, drained from the effort of spilling out two months' worth of biographical information.

"It's worse for Jack, but I think it's still better than the alternative."

"What d'you think the alternative would've been?"

I look over at him, and then at Abilene, wondering if it's okay to speak my mind in front of her. Seth jerks his head to the side, giving me a silent _go_ _ahead_.

"He'd be dead." I state brusquely, "Or dying."

The man beside me doesn't disagree with this, and I'm not surprised. When he's not hiding things from you, Seth is the most honest guy around.

"I think you did right!" Abilene squeaks, moving around in her father's lap. He releases her and she collapses on top of the dog at our feet the first chance she gets. Most dogs would be annoyed by this, but not Rufus. He loves kids.

"For what it's worth," Seth says, his eyes on me, "I agree with her."

His words, and his daughter's, are worth more than he knows. It's been eating away at me inside for so long, the knowledge that I might've messed Jack up somehow by letting him become a bounty hunter. By encouraging him. On her deathbed Abigail asked me to make sure Jack would be okay, after she was gone. Am I even doing that right?

_You can't let him go down that road. The one he won't come back from._

"Miss MacFarlane!" Desmond is now leaning against the automobile, "I suggest we get a move on before it's dark out!"

I look up at the sky and, upon noticing the purpling that comes along with a setting sun, realize that he's right. I have to get over to Collette's home before dinnertime.

"Come see us later, y'hear?" Seth has this uncanny ability to read minds, "Before you get back to Armadillo."

"Right." I say. I'm smiling and I hadn't even noticed.

"Make Jack come too!" Abilene insists, gripping Rufus's left ear in her tiny fist, "I miss him!"

I bend down and kiss the big dog gently on his muzzle. I know nothing would make him happier than seeing Jack again.

"He'll be here." I assure the little girl, "Even if I have to drag him the whole way."

She seems content with my answer and goes back to messing with Rufus's face, stretching it this way and that. When I get up, Seth envelopes me in a hug.

"Don't doubt yourself so darn much," he says kindly. I return the embrace, pressing my nose into his shoulder. There are some things that no amount of money can rid you of, and for Seth it's that scent of the sun and the desert that he retains from his days in Cholla Springs. It might be a little selfish of me, but I hope he always keeps this part of himself that only Jack and I can recognize.

* * *

I literally have to suck in a breath. That's how beautiful she looks.

"Collette!" I exclaim, holding back tears of joy. I'm such a pansy when it comes to these things.

"I know, I know. It's a bit much, isn't it?"

She twirls around in that simple white dress, and I have to wonder how I never before realized how breathtakingly beautiful she is. I mean, of course I knew she was pretty; you don't get as many guys courting you as Collette has when you're not pretty. Her wedding dress brings out something I hadn't noticed before, though. It makes her glow.

"No." I say firmly, moving forward to run my hand over the pure white cloth, "No, it's perfect."

She looks over at me, her lower lip quivering just slightly. Collette's close to crying too. If she looks even half as spectacular as this on her wedding day, I think James will faint on the spot.

"You've always been there for me." she says softly, "You know that, right?"

She turns away from the full length mirror in her bathroom and takes a seat on the settee beside the claw-footed bathtub. As she begins to remove her heeled slippers, I note that while my father may be richer than hers, Mr. Miller spends more of his wealth on making his family happy. My own father was always more interested in what is necessary than what is frivolous.

"It goes both ways." I say honestly. If Collette hadn't befriended me in my first year of school, the rest of the children may have never seen me as more than an illegitimate heir to the MacFarlane fortune. Everyone always says that Collette is shy, but they're wrong. She's reserved. She doesn't give herself away as easily as most people do and that makes some people uncomfortable. They see their own failings in areas where Collette succeeds.

"Maybe, but…" she breaks off suddenly, frozen in the act of unbuttoning her petticoat. I lean against the marble sink, waiting.

"I've always wished I was stronger, more like you. I could have done better if I was."

She's blushing furiously now, her trademark reaction in times of embarrassment. I grin as I imagine a stronger version of Collette. Perhaps she'd have punched James out the first time he presented her with a bouquet instead of just accepting the gift quietly.

"You wouldn't be Collette, then." I point out. This makes her smile. She slips behind a silk screen to change into her everyday clothes and I while away the time by spritzing the different perfumes on her sink counter onto my arm. By the time she reappears in a yellow sundress, I smell like the perfume/ cologne department at the local boutique.

"Why do you have so many of these?" I ask of the perfumes as we exit the bathroom and head down the hallway.

"Does it matter?"

"It's just a question, goodness."

She narrows her eyes at me as we reach the spiral staircase that leads down into the foyer. James is waiting for us down there and the carriage outside has already been prepped to accommodate the three of us. I'd told Desmond to return home without me so the Millers' driver will take me back and then whisk Collette and James away for an evening of romance. Despite my earlier misgivings, courtship seems like it might actually be fun.

"Sweetheart!" James is up on his feet the moment Collette enters the room, "Great timing, I was just about to send one of the maids up to fetch you."

She goes to him and he drapes her jacket over her shoulders. I smile to myself, thinking of the time Jack had given me his hat to protect me from the rain. What had happened after that may not be my best memory but the gesture was still nice.

"Effie, you didn't bring a shawl with you?" James has turned to me now, ever the gentleman.

"No, but don't worry about me," I say, walking to the front door, "I'm pretty warm-blooded."

He glances down at Collette, an expression of confusion on his face, and she shrugs as if saying _it's true_. I push open the mahogany doors before me without waiting for the servants to arrive and the lovebirds follow along behind me, making comments on the weather and the beautiful starry sky above us as we go. I, however, remember the night sky in Cholla Springs and I am not so impressed by what I can see now.

The Miller stagecoach has leather upholstery on the inside and I'm careful not to scratch it with my boots as I clamber into the wide space and take a seat by the window. Collette and James sit across from me and I realize that I'm the third unneeded wheel on their bicycle for tonight. It's a little lonely to notice this, but I think that's how it should be. Love makes it hard to see anyone else besides that other person.

I stare out the window as the ground begins to shift beneath us and think about how I've been moving around so much that I've started to miss things in a different way than most people do. I miss the feeling of riding War as fast as he could go, the closest I'd ever gotten to being completely free. I miss seeing the pride in Wade Johnson's eyes when he'd arrested those crooks at the end of the Westwood poisoning case. I miss the Marstons' graves and the peace I felt when I could sit beside them and recount my happier memories of the two of them. The person I miss most of all, though, is the one who is closest to me, and despite the fact that he's miles away I can sense him like a misplaced limb. If even ten percent of that feeling is reciprocated, I'll be content.


	11. And So It Goes

**A/N- Sorry. Sorry, sorry I am soooo sorry you guys have no idea how sorry I really am. I love this story with all my heart and I'm always thinking of ideas for it and writing bits of it, but finding the time to actually sit down and writing an entire is getting harder and harder the deeper I get into senior year. Honestly, I'm starting to hate my school work purely because it stops me from writing and drawing. Also, GTA V and Dragon Age and the newest season of The Walking Dead are partially to blame (DID YOU GUYS SEE THIS SUNDAY'S EPISODE OHMYGOD WHAT WAS THAT). I have no self control. Thank you all for being as loyal as you have been, I love you guys dearly okay? Please keep reviewing and whatnot, I really want to break 100 reviews by the time I finish this story :) to reiterate, I am definitely not giving up on this, I promise.**

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.**

Chapter Track: Home -Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

Chapter 11: And So It Goes

If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that I loved her.

I was never sure of my father. I knew that I could count on him to put our family before anything else, but protecting us often meant that he wasn't around. I was always striving to prove myself to him in one way or another and he was rarely there to see it.

It was hard to be sure of my mother. I'd been trying to my entire life to defend her from harassment and ill-intent and even the occasional bullet, but she didn't really need my help in those areas. She was always so busy being strong on the outside that when tuberculosis attacked her from the inside, she was unprepared.

Nobody was sure of Uncle. Nobody knew where he'd come from, nobody even knew who he was. He'd spend half his days napping and the other half lecturing me on the perils of getting married or sleeping with prostitutes. He was always a very important part of my life, but for some reason he felt like a stranger.

Things were different with her. She'd smile at me and my breath would catch in my throat. She pulled the trigger of her favorite gun and I blessed her fingers. My boring brown eyes would meet her lovely blue ones over the cover of the books we'd read together and I'd go bright red. I don't know when I realized that I loved her because it felt like I always had. That is, until, the people around me started dropping like flies. Distance began to equal her safety and her safety was everything to me. It still is.

This would all be so much easier if she'd kept her feelings to herself.

* * *

I throw another knife at the wall across from me and it embeds itself in the wood with a satisfying thud. The sounds of a rowdy bachelor party drift up from the floor below and I'm pretty sure I can hear a couple 'doing the deed' next door. I have an entire town out there to do as I please with and all I feel like doing is sitting in this rented room, practicing my knife throwing.

Who knew it would get so boring without Effie here? I thought I'd at least have Johnson to keep company with, but that jackass left for some sort of marshal meet-up in Benedict Point and there's no way in hell I'll spend any more time with Jonah than I have to. I'm all alone. The only friends I have left in this town are my horse and Effie's. And, as I have nothing else to do, I decide to go check on them.

I heave myself out of bed and move across the room to pull my knives out of the wall. Despite the amount of time we've spent here, the small space is almost empty. My guns and a set of fresh clothes are laid out on my side of the room, but Effie's side and her bed are so empty and neat that it almost feels like she was never really here.

"Stop that." I reprimand myself under my breath. I decide to exit the saloon through the balcony in hopes of avoiding running into any unsavory types around the bar downstairs. Especially the prostitutes. Boy, do I get weirdly scared around prostitutes. The trip over to the barn behind the saloon is fortunately uneventful and I find myself whistling idly to the tune of something I'd heard the pianist at the bar playing as I go. It's getting too cold for me to keep making pointless trips outdoors like this, but what else is there to do?

My horse huffs impatiently as I draw near and it's clear that he expects some sort of treat from me. He and War are huddled pretty close together, trying to keep the cold out with their shared warmth and I try to block out the part of my subconscious that equates the two of them to me and Effie, but it's hard. Our horses have been together almost as long as we have.

"Jack Marston?" a voice asks from behind me, bringing me out of my reverie. I glance back over my shoulder to see Elizabeth, Wade Johnson's object of affection, standing behind me. She's holding a basket of bright red apples in her small hands.

"Elizabeth Westwood, right?" I ask, and she nods in reply, "What are you doin' out in this cold?"

She places the basket down by her feet and approaches me, her blonde hair swaying slightly in the cool breeze. Somehow she reminds me of the girls I used to see in newspaper ads back when I still read the newspaper every day.

"My father owns this barn," she says bluntly, pulling another apple out of her coat pocket and handing it to me, "I offer to deal with the horses when I'm tired of people."

She stands beside me quietly after that, watching as I split the single apple in half with my knife and give the pieces to my unnamed horse and Effie's named horse. They chomp down on their treats happily enough and War almost takes a few of my fingers along with the fruit.

"Effie's in Blackwater, if you're wonderin'" I admit, breaking the companionable silence with my words. I can't be too sure but I get the feeling that the two of them are on friendly terms (and I actually believe in the whole 'friend of my friend is my friend' thing).

"I figured it was something like that. Otherwise she'd be with you."

I don't respond to this statement. In all honesty, I'm not quite sure how to.

"Are you religious at all, Mr. Marston?"

This question comes out of nowhere and I glance over at the girl beside me incredulously, uncertain of her motives.

"I used to be." I mutter, tugging nervously at the red scarf around my neck, "Not so much anymore."

Elizabeth nods at this and moves back across the barn to her basket of apples. Her boots leave small, perfectly shaped footprints in the hay that covers the floor as she goes. She continues to feed the remaining horses with the contents of the basket and directs another rhetorical statement at me.

"When I met her, I got the feeling that Effie's the sort of person who leaves a mark wherever she goes."

She's right, I guess. I'd never really thought about it but Effie does have a tendency making a place for herself in everyone's' lives whether she is invited in them or not. My hands have somehow found their way into my pockets during the course of this conversation and I'm glad for the warmth they find there. It's a bit weird that most of Elizabeth's attempts at dialogue are somehow related to my closest friend. Then again, maybe it's just because she's the only thing we have in common. Maybe I'm over-thinking things.

"So you've lived in Armadillo your whole life?" I pose a question to my companion in attempts of avoiding more awkward statements about Effie.

"Yes, I have. I was born here and, after I get back from medical school, I'll probably die here."

She says this all very bluntly and without any real inflection. I conclude that Elizabeth is not disappointed with the prospects of dying in this small, dusty town.

I nod at this and, after patting both my horse and Effie's goodbye, head for the exit. Elizabeth's been quiet for long enough that I'm sure our conversation is over. Only when I reach the barn doors do I learn that it's not.

"Where is your home, Jack?" Elizabeth asks me as my hand touches the wooden slats that mark my escape.

I look at her, my mouth opened just slightly to tell her about Beecher's Hope, my parents' graves, but for some reason I can't say any of it. All I'd thought about at the first mention of the word 'home' was Effie's mischievous smile and the way she'd sometimes blush when caught off guard and how she'd held me so gently after finding out about my father's passing. I want to tell Elizabeth that my home is a physical, tangible place that I'll get to go back to someday, but, if I'm being honest with myself, it's something else entirely. My home is wild and free and running-always running. And it's forever out of my reach.

"I'm not sure."

This answer is probably much less than adequate for a question so simple, but Elizabeth doesn't seem to mind. She just gives me this small smile before turning back to her business, and I recognize the action as a dismissal.

As much as I don't relish the idea of returning to that booze-soaked saloon, I really don't have anywhere else to go. I take the steps up to the balcony two at a time, avoiding the prostitutes again, and reach the double doors just as someone's hand clamps down on my shoulder. It feels small, but it's surprisingly strong.

"I need your help!" a familiar voice shrieks from behind me. I turn my head around so quickly that the motion nearly snaps my neck.

"Marianne!" I blurt out, "Ouch!"

Her vice-like grip on my shoulder hasn't let up one bit and I'm nearly positive that her manicured nails are cutting into my flesh. Her dark curls fly wild as she puts her face up real close to mine.

"Are you any good at five-finger fillet?" she asks ominously. I just stare at her, eyes wide with fear, before nodding once. Like I said before, I'm strangely terrified of prostitutes.

"Good," her hand moves down from my shoulder to grip my hand, "Come on!"

She drags me back down the stairs and across the dirt road to the train station and for some reason all I can think about is how old she must be. Marianne can't be more than four years my elder and yet…she's a working girl. Like my mother once was. She and my father never talked about it but I knew, and I was also aware that she didn't have much choice in the matter. The fact that Marianne may also not be doing this by choice is the only thing that keeps me holding on to her hand.

"I'm back." the violet-eyed girl announces to a group of grimy looking men gathered around a bloody surfaced table, "And I'm gettin' that ticket!"

"Ticket?" I say as Marianne shoves me into a seat across from a mustachioed black fellow. She rolls her eyes at my words, as if I'm asking something that should be obvious.

"The carnival's comin' to town next month, sugar. There's gonna be a real aeroplane and I intend on ridin' it!"

I have a brief flashback to one of the last moments I'd spent with my father. _One of them machines can turn men into angels, _I'd said reverently about the flying contraptions. He'd looked down at me with an emotion I could never quite comprehend even to this day. Was it wonder? Joy? He repeated my words to himself.

_One of them machines can turn men into angels…_

"You any good with your hands, boy?" the man before me smirks at this innuendo as he draws a silver knife from inside his jacket.

"I'm guessin' you're about to find out, old man." I retort. My own knife is significantly thicker than his and this means that he'll have a much easier time with the match than me. Even so, I'm not afraid. Effie's always been talented at Liar's Dice, but Five-Finger Fillet is my game. The stranger's knife moves up and down between his fingers in quick, repetitive arcs and I'm almost impressed. This guy's actually decent. After two rounds of table stabbing, he stops and slams the knife into the wood with enough power to embed it there. He's done. It's my turn now.

I flash my opponent a smirk before bringing my knife down between my forefinger and my thumb with a force so resolute that he looks taken aback for a moment. My movements are faster than his, my aim more precise. I finish my turn even quicker than he did and I don't cut myself once. This man and his mustache are done for, and he knows it.

"Alright kid, you're pretty good." he remarks, standing up, "But you'll have to beat the rest of 'em if you wanna win the ticket for your little lady friend."

I open my mouth, about to deny any implications of a relationship between Marianne and me, but she covers my mouth with one small hand before I can say anything. This skin on skin contact disorients me more than anything my opponent has said. Marianne smells good, like lilacs, and her fingers are strangely soft, but for some reason her touch feels…_wrong_.

"Eyes on the prize, darlin'."

She removes her hand and backs up, but I still sense that wrongness somehow. Whatever. I shake myself off and try to focus on my next challenger. After a couple minutes he loses good-naturedly enough and makes way for the next guy. This one's a bit harder. I cut my thumb in a pretty bad way in my haste to outdo him.

"Shit." I remark, rubbing at the wound with my other hand. I briefly consider taking off Effie's scarf and using that as a handkerchief, but I can't do it. The thought of getting blood on it bothers me.

"You doin' okay there, tough guy?" Marianne says with a small smile, "Want me to get you a bandage or somethin'?"

I can't tell if she's making fun of me or not. Unsure of what else to do, I just roll my eyes and wave forward the next contender. I may be coming away with a few more scars, but at least I'm winning.

* * *

"One damn ticket ain't worth all these cuts." I say scathingly as Marianne applies alcohol to my wounds; it turns out that she wasn't actually kidding about the whole bandage thing. As soon as I'd gotten the aeroplane flight voucher she'd dragged me into one of the few back rooms in the Armadillo Saloon to patch me up.

"Maybe not to you, you stick in the mud." she replies, her tongue in between her teeth as she cuts a cloth bandage down to size, "But I've been dreamin' of flyin' for years now. Ever since I first heard about them weird machines."

As she bends over my bloodied hand, brown locks spilling over her forehead, I find myself thinking of birds and how great it must feel to be as free as they are. I've never been one to complain about the hand I've been dealt but sometimes I wish I was a bird. An eagle, more specifically. Something that flies and can fend for itself. It's not that I feel trapped or anything, I'm definitely allowed a measure of freedom that Marianne is denied, but I have my own share of burdens. My dead parents are probably the biggest ones and Effie is a close second. Somehow, though, the latter is a burden I've never minded carrying. Actually, I welcome it.

"So…" Marianne begins, letting go of my hand, "She isn't with you today."

I know who she means, but I answer her like I don't.

"Who?"

"You know, that plain-lookin' girl you're always with?"

This comment annoys me for some reason I'd rather not think about. Even if I didn't know her like I did, I'd still think Effie was pretty.

"She's in Blackwater," I admit, getting out of my chair with the intention of leaving Marianne and returning to my room. Unfortunately, she's having none of it. She stands up too and blocks my path to the stairs.

"I'm gonna be straight with you, Jack Marston. I like you."

As I try to process this, the pianist in the corner of the room takes a seat behind his instrument and starts to bang out a jaunty tune. Many of the bar's patrons take note of this change and begin talking in raised voices.

"You don't even know me." I point out to Marianne. I'm still trying to figure out how to get around her without coming off as too rude.

"I know enough. You're a goddamn hero!" her eyes seem to brighten as she says this, "You saved me once and you helped me out today for no fuckin' reason."

I decide not to break in with the comment that I actually just enjoy beating people at five-finger fillet.

"Plus, you haven't made a move on me once since we met in Thieves' Landin'. That makes you more of a gentleman than anyone around these parts."

Marianne is clearly building up to something that I'm not too interested in hearing and if I'm being honest with myself I know that she's beautiful, but that doesn't change anything. I'm just not attracted to her in the slightest.

"Look, Marianne, I'm just not the type of guy-"

A gunshot cuts off the end of my sentence and the entirety of the bar drops silent at the sound. A quick glance around tells me that my fellows are just as unaware of the origins of the shot as I am, confirming that the clamor probably came from outside. I'm out the door in less than ten seconds and down the street in only thirty more, looking for a shooter out of some mildly heroic instinct. This bounty hunter business is changing me into someone I barely recognize. When I pause near the bank to take a breath, a slim figure shoots past me and grabs my wrist. Marianne decided to follow me out.

"What are you doin'?!" I demand, allowing her to drag me along for the second time today. She turns abruptly between two houses and I can hear shouting from somewhere up ahead.

"It came from here." she says calmly, still running. There's not a single hitch in her breathing and I'm pretty impressed that she can move so fast without even breaking a sweat. As we skid to a halt between the two houses, I catch sight of an official looking man with his gun pointing straight up towards the sky. It looks like we found our shooter.

"My children will be _homeless_!" a voice exclaims from out of sight. The gunman takes a moment to exchange a look with the guy behind him (who is also armed, I notice) before answering.

"That's really not our problem, mister. You didn't pay your taxes and now it's back to bite you in the ass, that's how things work here in America."

"We paid what we could!" I hear a woman cry, "It's not fair of you to charge extra on a war we never asked for!"

At this, I can see that the official-looking man's patience is wearing thin. He points his gun at the unwilling tax payers in front of him and his accomplice mimics him.

"You were warned. You have five minutes to vacate the premises or I will gun you down in front of your family, do you hear me?"

This scene is all too familiar for me to keep silent any longer. I move around the corner, ignoring Marianne's gestures to keep hidden, and see that a vaguely familiar man is standing in front of his wife, presumably, and their two kids with his gun held up. This entire town is filled with idiots. I don't have much time to act before one of the two parties decides to take the shot so I do what any sane man would do in my position. I pull out my rifle and bring its tail end crashing down on the accomplice's skull. He might have a concussion afterwards, but he'll live. Unfortunately it seems as if I've underestimated my opponent's ability as the official already has his gun trained on me, but a shiny object flies past me and implants itself just below his collarbone before either of us can make a move. He hits the ground and I look over my shoulder to see Marianne standing there, her hand still raised. She saved me. I mouth the word 'thanks' to her, but the woman in front of me is much more verbal about her feelings than I am.

"_You killed him!_" she screeches the obvious, her arms spread out in front of her daughter and son, "_He's DEAD!"_

Marianne moves towards the family and begins speaking to the man and his wife in hushed tones. Their kids are silent beside them, the son has his hands covering his face and the daughter keeps hers over her ears. She has tears in her eyes. Unsure of what else to do, I decide to follow protocol. The official man's backup is still alive but he is definitely not. The two men have eighty-seven dollars between them and I decide not to keep it for myself. Someone else needs this more than I do.

"Here," I say as I reach the husband, "Take this and get out of Armadillo."

I shove the crumpled bills into his uncertain hand and am unsurprised to find that he's not thankful in the least. He barely spares me a passing glance before grabbing up his daughter with one arm and his son with the other and hightailing it out of here. His wife follows along after him, dabbing at her face with the cloth of her sleeve.

"The government wants more every day." Marianane says from beside me.

"What do you mean?"

"Taxes keep goin' up the longer those European countries are fightin'. Not everyone can afford that."

I'd never given the war much thought before today because it had nothing to do with me. There's enough going on here without us getting involved in other continents' problems as well.

"I need to go." I mutter, hoping to slink back to the saloon. I'm not supposed to be doing this. I'm supposed to bring justice, not get in the way of the law (no matter how corrupt the law might be).

"You're just gonna leave me here with all this?"

Marianne gestures around us and her bright eyes look slightly fearful. She's not used to this killing thing, but judging by her knife throwing she's been prepared for it for quite some time.

"Pull your knife out of that guy and get out of here. Keep your mouth shut about it."

I've upset her. The expression that crosses her face is clearly one of hurt and I begin to consider that maybe she'd expected some level of emotional support from me since we'd done this together.

"Who am I gonna tell, Jack?" she asks me softly. She looks at me for a second longer before dropping to her knees and grabbing hold of the knife protruding from one of the dead men's necks. I decide not to stay and watch what happens next.

* * *

I know it's cliché but the first time I saw her, I'd felt a little like I couldn't breathe right. That's why, as I wait for her train to pull into Armadillo Station, I can recognize the sensation.

"You have no idea how happy I am to be back," she says to me, "I am so tired of that place!"

She hops down onto the platform, one heavy-looking bag slung over her shoulder. When she hits the ground she loses her balance and I throw my hands out to catch her.

"Thanks." she mutters. I can't stop myself from letting out a frustrated sigh because I always worry about her.

"Effie…" I begin, but can't end. What can I say here? _I missed you, I _always_ miss you..._I can't say what I'm thinking. I won't let myself ruin her like that.

"How's your pa doin'?" I ask instead. She looks a bit put off by my words but answers me anyway.

"Fine, but I don't know why you care. He's awful to you."

The thought of this seems to anger her and she pulls away from my hold with a quiet little huff. Even an irate Effie is more comforting to me than not having her at all, though, and I smile to myself as I follow her through the station. When I reach her, I take the opportunity to pull the travelling bag off her shoulder and onto mine.

"That's oddly gentlemanly of you," she remarks, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. It's strange that even here, in a train station bustling with voices and footsteps, I can hear her so clearly.

"Trust me, it won't last." I assure her. This makes her smile a bit too. She elbows me in the stomach just slightly before running off ahead of me, leaving me behind, as always, to give chase.


End file.
